


Chasing a Butterfly

by OpenPage



Category: 21 Jump Street (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Character Death, Explicit Language, M/M, Oral Sex, Prison Sex, Prostitution, Rape, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 52
Words: 129,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenPage/pseuds/OpenPage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accidental shooting tears Tom’s world apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trigger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holdencfield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdencfield/gifts).



> **Disclaimer: I do not own 21 Jump Street or any the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.**
> 
> **No copyright infringement is intended.**
> 
> **Based on the TV series 21 Jump Street.**
> 
>  
> 
> **************************************************************************************************************************
> 
>  
> 
> **I apologize in advance for the racial slurs.**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35140390104/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Tuesday February 28th 1989 (9.16 p.m.)** _

A gentle breeze ruffled the curtains in Tom Hanson’s apartment. Taking a sip of beer, the twenty-three year old undercover officer stared out of the open window at the waning moon sitting high in the night sky. It was the one-year anniversary of Amy’s death, but he felt nothing, no sadness, no regret, no anger. All he had inside was emptiness, a void in his heart and soul that he seemed unable to fill. It was no mystery to him, he knew the reason why he felt so detached and he was man enough to admit it; he had not loved Amy and although he knew he should, he felt no responsibility for her death.

Taking another sip of beer, he thought back over the months following her murder. He had immediately put the past behind him and moved forward by having other relationships, but he found himself unable to commit and the women in his life soon grew tired of his aloofness. Jackie had been the latest to walk out the door, but even her parting words had little impact on him. She had accused him of being emotionally stunted, immature and selfish, but the words did not hurt because he knew she was speaking the truth. Over the past twelve months, he had found himself becoming more and more detached from his emotions. On the outside, he managed to portray the Tom Hanson of old; he was fun loving, diligent and fiercely loyal to his friends. But on the inside, he was hollow, devoid of any feelings or ambition, other than the overwhelming need to numb his mind with alcohol. It had been a slow decline, but he knew he was about to reach rock bottom. The alcohol no longer blocked out the nagging voice inside his head that mocked his inadequacies as a man. He was incapable of love; the real, unbridled, raw love, the love that hurt because you felt so deeply for another person you experienced their physical and emotional pain as though it were your own, and the reason he was incapable of feeling that deeply was because his heart had turned to stone. He had become a ghostly effigy of his former self and no one in his life, including his best friend, seemed to see that he was holding onto his sanity by a thread.

He was the consummate actor.

Stepping away from the window, he finished off his beer and tossed the empty bottle onto the floor. His apartment was a mess, even by a bachelor’s standards and picking his way through the trash-littered floor, he grabbed a glass and a bottle of Jacks from the kitchen and sat down on the couch. He filled the tumbler to the rim and downed half the whiskey in one gulp. As the alcohol made its way down, his throat burned and the glowing warmth that radiated throughout his body instantly calmed him. Flopping back against the cushions, he let out a sigh and stared blankly at the muted television. He was living in an empty world, but he told himself he was past caring. It no longer bothered him if he lived or died and he often lay awake at night staring down the barrel of his gun, contemplating whether pulling the trigger would finally give him the peace he craved.

**

_**Wednesday March 1st 1989 (8.13 p.m.)** _

Inside a dimly lit warehouse in downtown L.A., Tom pulled out a switchblade and flicking it open, he cut a small hole in the plastic bag that lay on an upended crate in the middle of the room. White powder spilled from the slit and licking his finger, he dipped it inside. Placing his finger in his mouth, he suppressed a smile when his tongue went numb, the sensation signaling the presence of cocaine and slowly pulling the digit from his mouth, he addressed the man sitting in front of him. “Seems pure. When’s the full shipment coming in?”

Juan Álvarez tilted his head on one side and gave Tom a sinister grin. “Don’t you wanna try before you buy, pretty boy?”

Tom glanced furtively at his undercover partner. He had only seconds to make a decision and if he made the wrong one, he risked blowing the whole case. His training at the academy had not prepared him for this type of situation and his heart pounded in his chest as adrenalin coursed through his veins. But outwardly, he was a picture of calm, and smiling sweetly, he nodded his head. “Sure, set up a line.”

Dennis Booker stepped out from the shadows, a look of annoyance marring his handsome face. “C’mon, Tommy, we don’t have time for this,” he growled. “The stuff looks good, place an order and we can be on our way.”

Álvarez's brow creased into a deep frown and reaching into the waistband of his jeans, he pulled out a gun. “Your boyfriend seems mighty keen to hot-foot it outta here,” he murmured as he pointed the gun menacingly at Tom. “Makes me kinda nervous, ya know?”

Tom scowled and picking up the knife, he placed the flat edge of the blade against his tongue and slowly drawing it across the moist flesh, he licked the remnants of powder from the shiny steel. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he snarled, “but he does need to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

Álvarez narrowed his eyes and waved the gun at Booker. “Want me to take care of him?” he asked Tom in a low, intimidating voice. “We could dump his body in one of the oil vats and no one would ever know.”

Seemingly unfazed by the threat, Tom shook his head. “Nah, it’s all good. I’ll deal with him in my own way.”

After several uncomfortable seconds spent staring down the barrel of Álvarez’s gun, Booker let out a silent sigh of relief when the Latino tucked the weapon nonchalantly back in his waistband. He was furious with Hanson and he could not believe how recklessly his partner was behaving. He had no idea how Tom was going to feign snorting a line of cocaine and he felt as though they were rapidly losing control of the situation. They had spent weeks integrating themselves into the seedy life of drugs and crime and they were so close to a bust he could almost taste the victory. But over the past few weeks, he had noticed a marked change in Tom’s demeanor and he wondered if the drug dealers and gang members associated with their case were having an effect on him. He had always considered Tom to be a by the book cop, but now he was not so sure. The young officer seemed to be enjoying the thrill of the criminal activity a little _too_ much. However, he did not completely blame Tom for that, it was exhilarating being legally on the wrong side of the law and he too got a buzz from the adrenalin rush. But Tom had pushed it too far. Drug taking was not an acceptable part of their undercover assignment and when their Captain found out, there would be hell to pay.

Turning his attention back to Tom, he watched his partner pass the switchblade to Álvarez. All their training had taught them that they should make the deal as quickly as possible and leave because any unnecessary contact only made them more vulnerable to detection. Their orders were simple, they were to set up the buy and when they came to collect, they would bust Álvarez and his partner Manny García and two drug dealers would be off the streets. But now Tom was playing a dangerous game with a well-known criminal and watching it unfold made him nervous.

Unable to intervene without completely blowing their cover, he looked on in silence. Álvarez crushed the drug and lined up two rails of approximately an eighth of a gram on a small mirror. The dealer then removed two ten-dollar bills from his wallet and rolling one, he handed it to Tom. “Bon appétit.”

Tom took the rolled banknote and before he could overthink what he was about to do, he lowered his head and placing the cylinder against his nostril, he inhaled deeply through his nose. He felt a slight burning sensation and lifting his head, he pinched his nostrils between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed loudly. When he felt no effects from the drug, he started to relax and he watched with interest as Álvarez snorted his line. However, a few minutes later the cocaine entered his system and a feeling of euphoria washed over him. Grinning happily, his leg started to jig up and down as nervous energy coursed through his body. “That’s good shit,” he commented with a smile.

“It’s the best,” Álvarez replied as he wiped the telltale signs of the drug from his nose. “So how much can I put you down for, Tommyboy, a hundred grams?”

“Make it two,” Tom replied casually and ignoring Booker’s exasperated expression, he held out his hand, “and if we move it quickly, I’ll be back for more.”

Álvarez shook the proffered hand. “Deal. The shipment arrives Sunday. Meet me here at ten.” Turning his head, he gave Booker the once over. “And if I were you, Tommy, I’d leave _him_ behind. He makes me nervous and when I get nervous, I sometimes kill people… ya know, by accident.”

Tom stood up. “Consider it done. Pleasure doing business with you.”

Álvarez nodded and he watched in silence as the two young men left the building.

**

As soon as they were out of earshot, Booker grabbed Tom forcefully by the arm. “Are you fucking crazy?” he snarled. “You could have got us killed.”

The cocaine in his system fueled Tom's aggressiveness and he angrily yanked his arm away. “Fuck you!” he spat. “ _You_ could have got us killed. I was playing along… you were acting like a fucking nark!”

“Playing along?” Booker exclaimed in disbelief. “You snorted a line of coke! You could lose your job over this!”

Tom’s eyes darkened and stepping forward, he pressed his index finger menacingly against Booker’s chest. “If you say a single word about this to Fuller, I promise you, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

Although surprised by the threat, Booker was not intimidated and he slapped Tom’s hand away. “You and who’s fucking army, Hanson?” he growled. “You can’t take me and you know it.”

“Maybe,” Tom murmured. “But there are more ways of killing a cat, if you know what I mean.”

For a fraction of a second, Booker wondered if Tom was dangerous, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. It was obvious the case was getting to him and once it was over, they would go back to treating each other with indifference and contempt. Except he knew that was a lie. Tom would go back to treating _him_ with indifference and contempt, but he would have to hide his true feelings, the feelings that made him moan at night as his fingers played with his cock, teasing it to hardness until his life-seed exploded from within as he cried out Tom’s name. It was his dirty little secret that he kept hidden from everyone except his family; he was bisexual and he was completely infatuated with Tom. 

However, despite the crush he had on the man standing in front of him, he was not blind to his imperfections. Behind Tom’s seemingly laid-back disposition, there was a veiled darkness that was somewhat unsettling. They had only worked together for four months and during that time, he had seen flashes of craziness in his partner’s brown eyes. It was a mystery to him why no one else seemed aware of it, and he wondered if Hanson had always been a little maniacal or if something had happened to change his personality. But he did not feel close enough to any of his colleagues to ask, and therefore, he remained ignorant to the true nature of the young officer’s pain.

Returning his thoughts to the present, he gazed into Hanson’s eyes. When he saw the dilated pupils, he knew his partner was experiencing a cocaine buzz and his anger intensified, but so did his fear. Although no one would believe it, he cared deeply about Tom and he did not want to see him risking his career for the sake of a drug bust. However, he was too stubborn and proud to admit his fears to the man who constantly treated him with disrespect, so instead, he behaved the way Tom expected him to and shoving forcefully past him, he gave a derisive snort. “Don’t threaten me, Hanson, ‘cause I’ll whip your ass so bad, you won’t be able to sit down for a fucking month.”

When a hand grabbed his arm and spun him around, he fully expected Tom to strike him, but the rage in the dark eyes glaring at him slowly disappeared and he found himself gazing back at rational Tom, the respected police officer. He started to turn away, but Tom grabbed him again, this time a little less forcefully and a heavy silence hung in the air as the two men stood staring at each other.

Eventually, Tom flashed his trademark half smile. “C’mon, Booker, don’t be like that,” he purred. “I only had a split second to make a decision. What was I supposed to do? I took a risk, but it paid off, so no harm no foul, right?”

Booker did not agree with Tom’s reasoning in the slightest, but he was through arguing. “Whatever you say,” he muttered and pulling his arm free, he walked towards his car.

**

_**Thursday March 2nd 1989 (9.36 a.m.)** _

“What exactly are you trying to tell me, Booker?” Penhall growled. He was in no mood for one of Dennis’ rants about Tom and he wished the two officers would settle their differences with an old fashion fistfight instead of continuously whining to him about each other.

Casting his eyes furtively around the empty locker room, Booker leaned in close. “He’s losing it, Penhall. Last night at the warehouse, he snorted a line of cocaine.”

Staring into Booker’s worried eyes, Penhall felt a moment of uncertainty before he burst out laughing. “Oh, come on, Booker, if you’re gonna accuse Tom of something at least make it believable! He doesn’t even take aspirin, he hates drugs.”

Dennis let out an exasperated sigh. “I _know_ that! But since we’ve been on this case, he’s changed. I can see it in his eyes, he’s getting off on the thrill of being on the wrong side of the law.” 

Penhall looked Booker up and down. “Tom told me what happened at the warehouse so don’t try and bullshit me,” he warned in a low voice. “ _You_ got twitchy and almost gave the game away, so Tom had to improvise. He _pretended_ to do a line so the guy wouldn’t be suspicious.”

“He’s lying,” Booker murmured softly. “There’s no way he could have faked it. The coke had to go somewhere and from where I was standing, it went straight up his nose.”

Penhall forcefully slammed his locker closed and gave the dark haired officer a penetrating look. “You’d better watch what you say,” he muttered in a threatening voice. “Fuller’s already replaced you on this case, one more fuck up and you might find yourself back at Internal Affairs. Come to think of it, maybe you should go back ‘cause snitching seems to be what you do best.”

It took all of Booker’s self-control not to punch Penhall in the face and stepping in close, he gave him an insolent look. “Fine. But if anything happens to him, it’ll be _your_ fault. I could’ve gone straight to Fuller with this, but I didn’t… don’t make me wish I had,” and turning away, he exited the locker room.

**

_**Sunday March 5th 1989 (9.22 p.m.)** _

A tremor of excited anticipation surged through Tom’s body and leaning forward, he snorted the line of cocaine. In his mind, he told himself it was research; he was getting into character so he could effectively play a part and bust Álvarez and García in the act of dealing. However, the reality of it was far more sinister. Since his initial high just six days before, he had found himself wanting more. At first, he had managed to suppress his urges, but as he lay in bed at night remembering the euphoria the drug had awakened within him, he found the yearning harder to resist, until eventually, he had surrendered to his desires and gone in search of a street dealer. It had not been difficult to find one, he knew all the usual hangouts and within fifteen minutes, he had scored an _eight ball_ for a hundred dollars. The high he had experienced after snorting a line had been exhilarating and for the first time in almost a year, he had felt fulfilled. He was no longer the hollow man; he was once again, alive.

That had been three days ago and he had been snorting three rails a day ever since, one in the morning and two in the evening to help him unwind. Although he had always been a staunch opponent of drugs, he realized he had fought against a culture he knew very little about and now that he had experienced it, he was certain there could be no harm in taking a little blow. After all, how could something that made you feel so good, be bad? 

It was the flawed ideology of every drug user on the planet, but in his mind, it made perfect sense and as a blissful feeling washed over him, he swiped the back of his hand under his nose and holstering his gun, he left his apartment.

**

_**Sunday March 5th 1989 (10.08 p.m.)** _

Juan Álvarez cast an appreciative eye over Harry Ioki’s taut body. “Where’s your _other_ boyfriend?” he smirked at Tom. “Did you take my advice and waste him?” 

With a slow grin, Tom shook his head. “Nah, but I did shove my boot up his ass for showing me up in front of company,” he replied placidly. “He’s lying low, nursing his wounds.” 

Secreted in a shadowy corner with Penhall by his side, Booker tightened his grip on his Glock and glared angrily out into the darkened warehouse. Hanson was purposely making a fool out of him, knowing he could hear the conversation. He had been furious when Fuller had pulled him from the case and he now wished he had gone straight to his superior about Tom’s impropriety instead of telling Penhall. But it was too late, the bust was about to go down and he had no choice, but to watch from the shadows and hope that Tom and Harry did not fuck it up. 

Taking a step forward, Álvarez placed the tip of his finger against Tom’s chest. “Are you sure it wasn’t your _cock_ you shoved up his ass?” he taunted as he slowly trailed his finger down Tom’s torso. “You two sure would make a pretty couple.” 

Tom was beginning to lose patience and he angrily slapped Álvarez’s hand away. “Are we here to do a deal or talk about your fantasies?” he growled. “I’ve got five grand burning a hole in my pocket and if you don’t want it, I’ll find someone who does.” 

Álvarez scratched at his chin and pulling his gun from the waistband of his jeans, he waved it lazily at the two undercover officers. “Yeah, well, here’s the thing Tommy. García’s a twitchy sonofabitch and he thinks you and your _butt_ buddies are setting us up. Are you on the up and up, pretty boy, or am I gonna bag myself a couple of cops?” 

Sweat prickled under Tom’s armpits and he rubbed a nervous hand across his mouth. With the cocaine now coursing through his bloodstream, he had trouble concentrating and his chest constricted in panic. He could feel himself losing control of the situation and he had no idea what tactic to use to gain the upper hand once again. 

Sensing that something was wrong, Harry stepped forward. “Do we _look_ like cops?” he asked in an infuriated tone. “Now how ‘bout you call your friend out from wherever he’s hiding and we make the deal ‘cause I’ve got better things to do than argue with a spick.” 

Álvarez lifted his gun and pointed it straight at Ioki. “Who are you calling a spick, you fucking chink,” he snarled. “I oughta blow your fucking head off right now.” 

As the scene played out before his eyes, Booker glanced anxiously at Penhall. “This is getting out of hand,” he hissed. “We need to do something.” 

Tightening his grip on his gun, Penhall nodded. “I wanna get closer. If it all turns to shit, Hanson and Ioki are gonna need backup. Cover me.” 

A trickle of sweat ran down Booker’s back. “Okay,” he whispered. “But be careful." 

Penhall gave a lopsided grin. "Always am," he murmured and with a quick glance at his surroundings, he moved stealthily away from the concrete pillar he had been hiding behind and crept across the darkened warehouse. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw movement and in a moment of fear and impaired judgment, he whipped out his gun, aimed and pulled the trigger. 

“NO!” Booker screamed as Penhall crumpled to the ground and breaking cover, he trained his gun on Álvarez. “Police! Drop your weapon!" 

Without hesitation, Álvarez fired his gun, hitting Harry, who immediately collapsed. Confused by the gunfire, Tom spun around and shot the Latino. With three men now on the ground, he set his sights on the fourth figure. 

“HANSON, IT’S BOOKER! DON’T SHOOT! DON’T SHOOT!” Dennis yelled, his voice rising in panic. 

Convinced that García was lurking in the shadows, Tom continued to point his gun in Booker’s direction, ignoring Harry who lay at his feet with blood oozing out of a bullet wound in his stomach. But Manny was long gone, having slipped out the back after hearing the first gunshot. Tom’s hands shook uncontrollably, but he was unable to move and he watched with increasing horror as Booker dropped to his knees next to Penhall’s lifeless body. Sirens rent the night air and several uniformed officers stormed the building, but to Tom, everything appeared dreamlike, with people moving in slow motion. Lowering his gun, he stared in confusion as his two colleagues were loaded onto stretchers and carried out to a waiting ambulance and it was not until Booker was standing right in front of him that the world returned to normal speed. 

Still stunned by what had taken place, he nervously licked his lips. “I—” he began, but a fist slamming into his face immediately silenced his words and staggering backwards, he clutched his aching jaw. 

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” Booker screamed hysterically. “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? YOU SHOT PENHALL! YOU FUCKING SHOT PENHALL!” 

Tom’s gun slipped from his fingers and clattered to the cement floor as Booker’s words resonated throughout his cocaine-addled brain. He had shot his best friend and he had no idea if the wound was fatal. 


	2. Dilemma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Álvarez scratched at his chin and pulling his gun from the waistband of his jeans, he waved it lazily at the two undercover officers. “Yeah, well, here’s the thing Tommy. García’s a twitchy sonofabitch and he thinks you and your butt buddies are setting us up. Are you on the up and up pretty boy, or am I gonna bag myself a couple of cops?”_
> 
> _Sweat prickled under Tom’s armpits and he rubbed a nervous hand across his mouth. With the cocaine now coursing through his bloodstream, he had trouble concentrating and his chest constricted in panic. He could feel himself losing control of the situation and he had no idea what tactic to use to gain the upper hand once again._
> 
> _Sensing that something was wrong, Harry stepped forward. “Do we look like cops?” he asked in an infuriated tone. “Now how ‘bout you call your friend out from wherever he’s hiding and we make the deal ‘cause I’ve got better things to do than argue with a spick.”_
> 
> _Álvarez lifted his gun and pointed it straight at Ioki. “Who are you calling a spick you fucking chink,” he snarled. “I oughta blow your fucking head off right now.”_
> 
> _As the scene played out before his eyes, Booker glanced anxiously at Penhall. “This is getting out of hand,” he hissed. “We need to do something.”_
> 
> _Tightening his grip on his gun, Penhall nodded. “I wanna get closer. If it all turns to shit, Hanson and Ioki are gonna need backup. Cover me.”_
> 
> _A trickle of sweat ran down Booker’s back. “Okay,” he whispered. “But be careful"_
> 
> _Penhall gave a lopsided grin. "Always am," he murmured and with a quick glance at his surroundings, he moved stealthily away from the concrete pillar he had been hiding behind and crept across the darkened warehouse._
> 
> _Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw movement and in a moment of fear and impaired judgment, he whipped out his gun, aimed and pulled the trigger._
> 
> _“NO!” Booker screamed as Penhall crumpled to the ground and breaking cover, he trained his gun on Álvarez. “Police! Drop your weapon!"_
> 
> _Without hesitation, Álvarez fired his gun, hitting Harry, who immediately collapsed. Confused by the gunfire, Tom spun around and shot the Latino. With three men now on the ground, he set his sights on the fourth figure._
> 
> _“HANSON IT’S BOOKER! DON’T SHOOT! DON’T SHOOT!” Dennis yelled, his voice rising in panic._
> 
> _Convinced that García was lurking in the shadows, Tom continued to point his gun in Booker’s direction, ignoring Harry who lay at his feet with blood oozing out of a bullet wound in his chest. But Manny was long gone, having slipped out the back after hearing the first gunshot. Tom’s hands shook uncontrollably but he was unable to move and he watched with increasing horror as Booker dropped to his knees next to Penhall’s lifeless body. Sirens rent the night air and several uniformed officers stormed the building but to Tom, everything appeared dreamlike, with people moving in slow motion. Lowering his gun, he stared in confusion as his two colleagues were loaded onto stretchers and carried out to a waiting ambulance and it was not until Booker was standing right in front of him that the world returned to normal speed._
> 
> _Still stunned by what had taken place, he nervously licked his lips. “I—” he began but a fist slamming into his face immediately silenced his words and staggering backwards, he clutched his aching jaw._
> 
> _“YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” Booker screamed hysterically. “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? YOU SHOT PENHALL! YOU FUCKING SHOT PENHALL!”_
> 
> _Tom’s gun slipped from his fingers and clattered to the cement floor as Booker’s words resonated throughout his cocaine-addled brain. He had shot his best friend and he had no idea if the wound was fatal._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170028353/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Sunday March 5th 1989 (11.28 p.m.)** _

The sound of the busy hospital echoed in Tom’s ears as he sat hunched in his chair with his head held in his hands. The trauma of the shooting had rendered him almost catatonic and he could not remember who had driven him to St. Mary’s but he figured it must have been one of the uniformed police officers that had arrived at the scene. 

However, as the hours slowly slipped by, the shock wore off and as his mind gradually registered the enormity of what had happened at the warehouse, tears filled his eyes. Two of his friends were, at that very moment, in theater having life saving surgery and he had no idea if they would live or die.

The sound of footsteps interrupted his self-flagellating thoughts and lifting his head, he saw Booker approaching him. Fear gripped his heart and standing up, he rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. “Is there any news?” he asked in a voice that sounded too loud in his own ears.

Booker’s mouth was set in a firm, disapproving line and his dark eyes flashed with anger. “What are you doing here Tom?” he responded in a cold voice. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Taken aback by Booker’s hostility, Tom gazed back in confusion. “What do you mean? I’m here because Doug and Harry—”

“Don’t fucking play games with me!” Booker shot back furiously and stepping forward, he shoved Tom violently in the chest, the force causing the smaller officer to stagger backwards. “The only reason Doug and Harry are here is because of _you!_ So don’t act all innocent with me, I know what I saw and that’s what’s going in my report.”

Tom’s self defense mechanism immediately kicked in and he narrowed his eyes into slits. “What the hell is your problem?” he hissed. “It was an accident. Why are you trying to make it out to be something else?”

Booker stared Tom straight in the eye and tried to keep control of his temper. "It wasn’t an accident,” he replied through clenched teeth. “I saw your dilated pupils and I’m guessing you were high on cocaine. The drug impaired your judgment and you—”

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU IMPLYING?” Tom yelled. “I’M A COP AND A FUCKING GOOD ONE AT THAT! HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF SHOOTING MY BEST FRIEND BECAUSE I WAS COKED UP!”

Booker let out a heavy sigh. Betraying the man he had such strong feelings for was not an easy decision to make but he had to do what was right, otherwise his badge meant nothing. “I don’t want to hurt you Hanson,” he murmured, “and if you’ve got nothing to hide you don’t have to worry, but—”

“I haven’t,” Tom replied testily, “so go ahead and write your fucking report, I don’t give a damn.” When Booker’s only response was to gaze back unwaveringly, he turned away and stormed from the hospital.

**

_**Monday March 6th 1989 (4.58 a.m.)** _

The soft light of dawn rose over the horizon, awakening the birds and within minutes, the sweet song of dozens of house sparrows filtered in through Booker’s open bedroom window, pulling him from a fitful night’s sleep. With a groan, he squinted at his alarm clock through sleepy eyes and without bothering to weigh up the alternative, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Rising to his feet, he stretched out his tense muscles before dropping to the floor and starting his daily regimen of one-hundred pushups. As his body came alive, his mind returned to the dilemma that had plagued his thoughts throughout the night… Tom.

As a police officer, he had a duty of care to his colleagues and to the citizens he served. If Tom _was_ using drugs then he was a loose cannon and the only option would be for the department to revoke his gun and badge until such time as he could prove he was clean. If it were any other officer, Booker knew he would have no hesitation in writing up an accurate report of the night’s events at the warehouse and exposing him or her as a drug user. However, when it came to Tom, his judgment was somewhat clouded. He felt physically sick at the thought of betraying the man he had such deep feelings for and he honestly did not know if he could do it. In the cold light of day, his anger had dissipated and he feared that if he made the wrong decision, he would be responsible for sending Tom to prison.

Getting to his feet, he walked into the bathroom and closed the door. Turning on the shower’s faucets, he adjusted the temperature and stepped under the warm flow of water. As the moist beads thrummed against his naked skin, he reached down and stroked his cock. Immediately visions of Tom filled his mind and a soft moan escaped his lips. His fingers played lightly over his growing erection, savoring the feel of his body coming to life beneath his touch, and a full body tremor had him gasping in delight. With each stroke, he imagined it was Tom’s long fingers caressing him to hardness and his pleasure quickly heightened. Precum leaked from his slit as his fist began to pump over his shaft and bracing his free hand against the mosaic-tiled wall, he lowered his head and began to pant. An image of Tom’s full lips wrapped around his cockhead flooded into his mind, pushing him over the edge and with a primordial yell, he ejaculated forcefully over his fingers.

A post climactic calm washed over his body and closing his eyes, he let out a sigh as he idly played with his softening cock. There was no longer any doubt in his mind about what to do. He was going to lie.

**

_**Monday March 6th 1989 (7.03 a.m.)** _

When Booker arrived at the Chapel, the mood in the operations room was far more subdued than normal. As he walked toward his desk, he caught sight of Judy looking lost and alone and her tear stained face tugged at his heart. Walking over to where she was standing, he placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Hey Jude, are you okay?”

Judy sniffed loudly and shook her head. “I just can’t believe it Booker,” she muttered, “you were there, how the hell did this happen? It was supposed to be a routine bust and now… and now…” Fresh tears spilled from her eyes and she buried her face against Booker’s chest. “What if they die? Oh God Dennis, what it they _die!”_

Holding the young officer close, Booker crooned softly against her dark hair. “Shh, no one’s going to die. It was nobody’s fault, it was just an accident.”

The lie echoed loudly in his ears and he silently prayed that Judy would not lift her head and see the deception in his eyes. However, whichever God was listening did not grant his request. Judy pulled herself free from his grasp, took a step backwards and gave him a disbelieving look. “Are you kidding me? Of _course_ it was somebody’s fault… it was _Hanson’s_ fault! I don’t know why he did what he did but _he_ pulled the trigger that started a chain reaction and now two of my friends are lying in hospital! So don’t tell me he isn’t to blame because a trained police officer doesn’t fire a gun by _accident!”_

“Judy, Tom didn’t—” Booker began in an effort to defend the man who tortured his every thought. 

But his lie remained unspoken as Fuller’s strained voice sounded from across the room. “BOOKER! I WANT YOUR REPORT ON MY DESK IN AN HOUR!”

Giving Judy a strained smile, Booker placed his palm against her smooth cheek. “Don’t blame Hanson,” he murmured softly, “he’s your friend too and he’s going through hell right now.”

Somewhat surprised by Booker’s defense of Tom, Judy faltered for a moment before narrowing her eyes. “Why are you defending him?” she asked suspiciously. “You were there, you _know_ he fired the shot that hit Penhall.” Stepping forward, she stared distrustfully into his eyes. “What are you hiding? You hate him, you’ve always hated him and now you’re protecting him… something doesn’t add up.”

Sweat prickled under Booker’s armpits and swallowing deeply, he attempted to keep his expression neutral. “It wasn’t his fault,” he muttered and turning away, he walked towards his desk.

**

_**Monday March 6th 1989 (8.23 a.m.)** _

Hearing a knock at his door, Captain Adam Fuller motioned for Booker to enter. “Take a seat,” he instructed as he took the proffered paperwork from the young officer’s hand.

Booker wiped his sweaty palms nervously on his jeans and sat down on a hardback chair. He watched with interest as his Captain read his report but he was unable to gauge any reaction from his superior’s face. 

Several minutes passed and his leg jigged restlessly whilst he waited for the older man to speak. Finally, after an agonizing five minutes, Fuller lifted his head and laying the paperwork on his desk, he gave Booker a hard look. “Is this the version of events you want to go on permanent record?” he asked in a cool voice.

Somewhat surprised by Fuller’s coldness, Booker shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes Coach,” he murmured without meeting his Captain’s penetrating gaze. 

Fuller silently scrutinized Booker for several long minutes before picking up the report and after clearing his throat, he started to read, _“A man with a gun stepped out from the shadows, close to where Officer Penhall was standing and pointed his weapon at him. I saw Officer Hanson draw his weapon and fire but the man shielded himself behind Officer Penhall. The bullet hit Officer Penhall in the chest and he fell to the ground. Juan Álvarez immediately shot Officer Ioki, wounding him in the stomach. By the time I reached Officer Penhall, the unknown assailant had fled.”_

When he had finished reading, Fuller lifted his head and his expression immediately revealed his suspicion. “Are you _sure_ that’s what happened?” he asked in a low, measured voice.

A lump formed in Booker’s throat but he quickly swallowed it down before giving Fuller an unwavering look. “Yes Cap’n,” he replied forcefully, “that’s what happened.”

A heavy sigh escaped Fuller’s lips and he suddenly looked every one of his forty years. Placing the report on his desk, he leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers under his chin. “Well, before I lodge it I want to hear what Hanson has to say.”

Booker’s heart rate quickened but he managed to keep an impassive expression on his face. “He hasn’t come in yet?”

Fuller shook his head. “I spoke to him on the phone last night and gave him permission to go to the hospital first.”

An idea quickly formed in Booker’s mind and he gave his Captain a beseeching look. “Yeah, about that… now that my report’s typed up, I’d really like to go there too… with your permission of course.”

After studying Booker’s tired face, Fuller let out another drawn-out sigh. “Granted,” he replied wearily, “but if you run into Hanson, tell him I want that report on my desk without delay.”

Afraid that his face might give away his intention to tell Hanson to lie on his report, Booker nodded and quickly walked from the room.

**

_**Monday March 6th 1989 (10.12 a.m.)** _

Slamming closed the door of his Cadillac, Booker tightly grasped the steering wheel and stared sightlessly out in front of him. Visiting Doug and Harry in the intensive care unit had been harrowing and he had found it extremely difficult to keep his emotions in check. Both men remained unresponsive, hooked up to various machines that beeped and flashed readings that he could make no sense of, leaving him feeling helpless and unsure how to behave. He had expected to find Hanson sitting at his best friend’s bedside, but the chair was empty, as was the one next to Ioki, their vacancy only helping to increase his sadness as it highlighted the fact that the two men were essentially alone. 

When he had gazed into Harry’s pale face, he had felt a pang of guilt. If Fuller had not pulled him from the case, _he_ would be the one lying unconscious in a hospital with a bullet wound to the stomach. It had been a sobering thought and he had wondered who would have sat at his bedside, willing him to wake up. His family? Past boyfriends? Past girlfriends? The thought had made him depressed and he found himself needing fresh air, so he had fled the hospital after only a few minutes.

Now, as he stared out at the mass of cars in the underground car park, his thoughts returned to the matter at hand. He knew what he had to do and turning the key in the ignition, he pulled out of the parking space and drove towards Hanson’s apartment.


	3. Tangled Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Monday March 6th 1989 (10.12 a.m.)_
> 
> _Slamming closed the door of his Cadillac, Booker tightly grasped the steering wheel and stared sightlessly out in front of him. Visiting Doug and Harry in the intensive care unit had been harrowing and he had found it extremely difficult to keep his emotions in check. Both men remained unresponsive, hooked up to various machines that beeped and flashed readings that he could make no sense of, leaving him feeling helpless and unsure how to behave. He had expected to find Hanson sitting at his best friend’s bedside, but the chair was empty, as was the one next to Ioki, their vacancy only helping to increase his sadness as it highlighted the fact that the two men were essentially alone._
> 
> _When he had gazed into Harry’s pale face, he had felt a pang of guilt. If Fuller had not pulled him from the case, he would be the one lying unconscious in a hospital with a bullet wound to the stomach. It had been a sobering thought and he had wondered who would have sat at his bedside, willing him to wake up. His family? Past boyfriends? Past girlfriends? The thought had made him depressed and he found himself needing fresh air, so he had fled the hospital after only a few minutes._
> 
> _Now, as he stared out at the mass of cars in the underground car park, his thoughts returned to the matter at hand. He knew what he had to do and turning the key in the ignition, he pulled out of the parking space and drove towards Hanson’s apartment._
> 
> _Now, as he stared out at the mass of cars in the underground car park, his thoughts returned to the matter at hand. He knew what he had to do and turning the key in the ignition, he pulled out of the parking space and drove towards Hanson’s apartment._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35847656961/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Monday March 6th 1989 (10.32 a.m.)** _

The upbeat tempo of R.E.M.’s _It’s the End of the World as We Know it (and I Feel Fine)_ blasted out of the speakers in Tom’s apartment and with a tight-lipped smile that resembled more of a grimace, the young officer ducked his head and snorted a line of cocaine from a mirror on the coffee table. He had spent several hours at the hospital and he needed something to take the edge off his emotional pain. Seeing Penhall and Ioki lying pale and motionless, both surrounded by machines that helped to keep them alive, had destroyed him. He had immediately collapsed in a flood of tears as guilt and pain rendered him incapable of holding it together any longer. A kindly nurse had consoled him, pulling him to her ample breast as she murmured meaningless platitudes that left him feeling like a fraud. His viewpoint had done a complete 360 in the hours since the shooting and he no longer looked for comfort because in his mind, he deserved a prison sentence. There was no sugar coating it, he had shot his best friend because he had been high on cocaine. He knew it, Booker knew it and soon, everyone else would know it too. 

But, now that he was finally feeling something other than hollowness within his soul, the sorrow and guilt inside him only increased the need to numb his emotions. He had forgotten how painful real emotions were and he longed once again for the emptiness that he had lived with for so long. But it was his inner turmoil that had his mind screaming. He had cried buckets for Penhall when he saw him at the hospital but not for Amy who had died on a dirty floor, shot through the chest by a gun-wielding man holding up the convenience store for a few hundred dollars. Her death had left him cold and unemotional, but seeing Penhall had rocked him to his very core. Even though he was responsible for both casualties, his reactions were poles apart and the knowledge only fueled his feelings of inadequacy as a human being. Why hurt so deeply for one and not for the other? Although he was honest enough to admit he had not loved Amy, every fiber of his being told him he should have mourned her death, and he hated himself for feeling indifference to her passing; he hated himself because he did not care.

As though on autopilot, he lined up another rail and leaning forward, he snorted the white powder into his left nostril. Flopping back against his overstuffed sofa, he let out a contented sigh and wiped the residual powder from his nose. The music blared from the speakers and closing his eyes, his legs started to jig to the rhythm as the drug entered his bloodstream. When he heard a loud banging, he initially thought it was inside his head and that his mind was hallucinating sounds in tempo to the music. But as the knocking persisted, he slowly realized someone was outside his apartment and opening his eyes, he stared suspiciously at the door. As the hammering continued, a strident voice added to the cacophony of noise that rattled inside his head. “HANSON! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, I CAN HEAR THE MUSIC! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”

When he recognized Booker’s voice, his happy mood instantly evaporated. Jumping to his feet, he strode across the room and yanked open the door. “WHAT?” he yelled, his face twisted into a furious snarl.

Startled by Tom’s enraged expression, Booker took a step backwards. But when he noticed the young officer’s dilated pupils, his own anger bubbled to the surface. “YOU’RE _HIGH?_ JESUS CHRIST HANSON, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” he screamed over the deafening music and without waiting for an invite, he stormed into the apartment. Striding across the room, he turned down the volume on the stereo just as the track changed to _“The One I Love”_. However, the fortuity of the moment was lost on him and taking several deep and calming breaths, he turned back to Tom. “You need help,” he stated quietly.

Shocked by Booker’s audacity, Tom’s resentment intensified and curling his lip, he let out a derisive snort. “From you?” he sneered. “No thanks.”

Hurt by Hanson’s words, Booker’s immediate response was to inflict the same pain back. “Are you blind or just stupid?” he spat. “Look around you Hanson, there _is_ no one else who wants to help you. Fuller’s keeping his distance because he knows you fucked up, Judy _hates_ you because you fucked up and Penhall and Ioki? Oh yeah, they’re just fucked up and guess what? All of this is because _you_ fucked up! So instead of getting high, maybe you should admit to yourself you have a fucking problem!”

A deep hatred burned inside Tom and balling his hands into tight fists, he stepped forward until his face was just inches away from Dennis’ angry glare. “No one asked you to come here, _Booker_ ,” he growled, making sure to emphasize his disdain when he spat out Dennis’ name. “So why don’t you be a good little cop and run away and nark on me some more.”

An unbridled fury blazed in Booker’s eyes. “ _Nark_ on you? I put my _job_ on the line for you, you ungrateful piece of shit!”

For a fraction of a second, Tom faltered and uncertainty replaced the burning rage glowering from his dark eyes. But he immediately dismissed Booker’s statement with a contemptuous snort. “Don’t bullshit me,” he replied in a tone dripping with venom. “I bet you couldn’t wait to type up your report and tell the world I was high the night Pen…”

The name of his best friend stuck in his throat and turning quickly away, he stifled a sob. When a gentle hand rested on his shoulder, he jerked away. “Leave me alone,” he muttered sullenly. “I don’t want your comfort.”

Booker let out a heavy sigh. Whilst his feelings for Tom sometimes overwhelmed him to the point of breathlessness, the majority of the time, the young officer drove him bat-shit crazy. However, what he failed to see was that many of the traits that frustrated him about Tom; his stubbornness, overconfidence and arrogance just to name a few, were actually a mirror image of his own personality. They were both forthright, strong-willed and not afraid to call a spade a spade, even if feelings were hurt in the process. It was the age-old idiom of the pot calling the kettle black and yet neither man could see himself reflected in the other.

When Tom stubbornly kept his back turned towards him, he stepped over the detritus covering the floor and planted himself just as obstinately in front of him. “You may not want my comfort but you will listen to what I have to say,” he stated testily. “I fucking lied for you, so stop being such a prick. We need to sit down and get our stories straight or the whole plan is going to fall apart.”

Tom trusted Booker about as far as he could throw him and lifting his head, he peered distrustfully through his long bangs. “Plan?” he asked suspiciously. “You don’t even like me so why would you try and help me?”

Hell would have to freeze over before Booker would admit his feelings to Tom and so he kept his expression unreadable. “You’re a good cop,” he muttered awkwardly, “but you need help. I’m willing to keep my silence as long as you stop doing drugs.”

Still skeptical of Booker’s motives, Tom glared at him warily. “And what’s in it for you?”

There was plenty in it for Booker; he would get to keep working with the man he adored but most importantly, he would be helping him. But none of those thoughts showed on his face and determined to keep up his image; he gave Tom a well-practiced sneer. “Let’s just call it my one good deed for the year, okay?”

Tom carefully studied Booker’s face and deciding he was on the up and up, he motioned towards the couch. “Okay, let’s talk.”

**

_**Monday March 6th 1989 (1.26 p.m.)** _

Captain Fuller frowned as he placed Tom’s report on his desk. “It seems you and Booker have the same recollection. I don’t think I’ve ever read two reports that are so similar.”

Now that he was coming down off his high, Tom’s mood was less than cordial. “Are you calling me a liar?” he asked moodily. 

Sensing that Hanson was overwrought, Fuller relaxed his expression. “No one’s calling you a liar Tom,” he replied softly. “I have one man dead and two officers in the hospital. I just want to make sure we dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s so the Commissioner doesn’t chew my ass out over this.”

Tom’s lower lip pushed into a soft pout and he lowered his gaze. “Sorry Cap’n,” he muttered, “I meant no disrespect, I’m just upset.”

Fuller exhaled heavily. “We all are. Take a few days off and try not to worry. Penhall and Ioki are fighters, they’ll get through this.”

Getting to his feet, Tom managed a small smile. “Thanks Coach,” he murmured and turning away, he walked out of Fullers office. A deafening silence resonated around the operations room and not wanting to acknowledge the accusatory stares that followed him as he strode towards the exit, he kept his eyes lowered to the floor. When he reached the stairs, he let out a sigh of relief that he had escaped unscathed but his reprieve was short lived when Judy walked up the steps towards him.

“Hanson,” she greeted coldly. “You finally decided to show your face.”

Tom shoved his hands deep in his pockets and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Why are you attacking me?” he asked sulkily. “It was an accident.”

Judy glared back unwaveringly. “That’s not what I heard,” she stated in a frosty voice. “Word from the uniform cops is, Booker went ballistic at you after the shooting. Why would he do that if it was an accident?”

So caught up in the web he and Booker had spun, even Hanson was starting to believe the lies and he answered Judy without any hesitation. “Booker hates me. It’s not the first time he’s verbally attacked me and it probably won’t be the last. Why do you care so much about it now?”

The expression on Judy’s face changed from anger to surprise. “Why do I _care?_ My God Tom, Doug and Harry are fighting for their lives! That’s why I care and you should too!” Shifting her gaze slightly, she pushed her lip into an obstinate pout. “I’m going to Fuller with my suspicions, I want an inquiry into the shooting.”

Too tired and emotionally wrung out to deal with the accusations and guilt any longer, Tom rounded on the woman who just days before, he had considered his friend. “I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU DO, OR WHAT YOU THINK, I DO FUCKING CARE!” he screamed hysterically. “MY BEST FRIEND IS LYING IN HOSPITAL BECAUSE I SHOT HIM BUT IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, SO STOP FUCKING PERSECUTING ME!”

Shocked by Tom’s uncharacteristic outburst, Judy stumbled backwards, her eyes wide with fear. Grabbing hold of the handrail, she let out a shout. “Jesus Hanson, settle down!”

Several officers ran out to the landing to see what all the commotion was about, but not wanting to face any more accusations, Tom roughly pushed past Judy and fled down the stairs.

**

_**Monday March 6th 1989 (6.54 p.m.)** _

Tom broke out in a cold sweat as he stared down at the baggie of white powder in his hand. He knew what he had to do, what he _needed_ to do, but the act of actually doing it had him paralyzed. After his fight with Judy, he had spent hours driving aimlessly around the city, avoiding work, avoiding going home and most importantly, avoiding Booker. The urge for a line had his nerves jangling and his mind silently screaming, but he knew if he did not resist the temptation, Booker would go through with his threat and break his silence. It still puzzled him why his nemesis was prepared to cover for him and he felt uncomfortable knowing that he would be indebted to a man he genuinely disliked, and in an effort to keep his mind off his increasing need to get high, he thought back over the last four months of their working relationship.

Their first case had not gone well and it had pretty much cemented their mutual dislike of each other (or so Tom thought). Although somewhat grudgingly, he did admit that Booker was a good cop and on certain cases, they worked well together. It was his cocky attitude that pissed him off, that and the constant teasing. Whilst he took Penhall’s good-natured ribbing as just a bit of fun, he found it difficult to do the same with Booker. Also, on several occasions, he had unwittingly caught the dark haired officer staring at him and the unwanted scrutiny unnerved him. He was usually so good at reading people, but he could not figure Dennis out and that just added to his annoyance. Booker was a bit of an enigma and that did not sit well with him. He was certain that the young officer was hiding a very big secret and therefore, he did not trust him.

These thoughts had rattled around in his brain as he wound his way through the L.A. traffic and when the sun had slowly dipped below the horizon, he had driven home. Now he found himself standing in his bathroom, holding the answer to all his nightmares in the palm of his hand. He had two choices; he could flush either the cocaine or his life down the toilet. It should have been an easy decision but it took close on ten minutes before he finally opened the small plastic bag and sprinkled its contents into the bowl. 

He watched as though mesmerized as the white powder slowly dissolved before flushing the toilet and walking from the room.


	4. When the Music's Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Monday March 6th 1989 (6.54 p.m.)_
> 
> _Tom broke out in a cold sweat as he stared down at the baggie of white powder in his hand. He knew what he had to do, what he needed to do, but the act of actually doing it had him paralyzed. After his fight with Judy, he had spent hours driving aimlessly around the city, avoiding work, avoiding going home and most importantly, avoiding Booker. The urge for a line had his nerves jangling and his mind silently screaming, but he knew if he did not resist the temptation, Booker would go through with his threat and break his silence. It still puzzled him why his nemesis was prepared to cover for him and he felt uncomfortable knowing that he would be indebted to a man he genuinely disliked, and in an effort to keep his mind off his increasing need to get high, he thought back over the last four months of their working relationship._
> 
> _Their first case had not gone well and it had pretty much cemented their mutual dislike of each other (or so Tom thought). Although somewhat grudgingly, he did admit that Booker was a good cop and on certain cases, they worked well together. It was his cocky attitude that pissed him off, that and the constant teasing. Whilst he took Penhall’s good-natured ribbing as just a bit of fun, he found it difficult to do the same with Booker. Also, on several occasions, he had unwittingly caught the dark haired officer staring at him and the unwanted scrutiny unnerved him. He was usually so good at reading people, but he could not figure Dennis out and that just added to his annoyance. Booker was a bit of an enigma and that did not sit well with him. He was certain that the young officer was hiding a very big secret and therefore, he did not trust him._
> 
> _These thoughts had rattled around in his brain as he wound his way through the L.A. traffic and when the sun had slowly dipped below the horizon, he had driven home. Now he found himself standing in his bathroom, holding the answer to all his nightmares in the palm of his hand. He had two choices; he could flush either the cocaine or his life down the toilet. It should have been an easy decision but it took close on ten minutes before he finally opened the small plastic bag and sprinkled its contents into the bowl._
> 
> _He watched as though mesmerized as the white powder slowly dissolved before flushing the toilet and walking from the room._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170028113/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Tuesday March 7th 1989 (5.48 a.m.)** _

Waking from a fitful night’s sleep, Tom rolled over and placing an arm behind his head, he stared morosely up at the ceiling. The night before, he had spent hours cleaning his apartment because he feared that if he did not stay active, the urge to go out and score an eight ball would easily win out over his faint, halfhearted desire to stay clean. Never before had his home received such a rigorous cleansing; he had mopped, scrubbed, disinfected, dusted, polished and vacuumed, until every inch of his apartment sparkled like a show home. It had been past 3 a.m. when he had finally fallen wearily into bed, but even though his aching muscles and fatigued brain had screamed for a reprieve, he had found sleep elusive. A constant montage of images had floated through his mind; _Doug dressed as a McQuaid, his lopsided grin beaming cheekily, Harry playing poker, his strong morality making it impossible for him to master the art of a poker face, nights out at the bowling alley where they unwound after a stressful case…_ On and on the visions rolled like a silent movie playing continuously in his head until he felt like he was slowly going mad. Tears had filled his eyes and burying his head in his pillow, he had sobbed like a child until finally, exhaustion had overwhelmed him and he had fallen into a light doze, his face mashed into the pillow as though attempting to block out the distressing images.

Stretching out his legs, he rolled onto his side and gazed at the morning light filtering in through a chink in his curtains as he listened to the birds singing their morning song of glory outside his bedroom window. He knew he needed to go to the hospital but the very idea of seeing Doug and Harry again terrified him. It was difficult for him to face a nightmare that he was the cause of and he wondered if his two friends would ever forgive him for his sins.

With a heavy sigh, he sat up and yawning loudly, he ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. As he rose to his feet, he heard a hesitant knock at his apartment door and he glanced at his bedside clock in surprise. The red luminous dial read 5.55 a.m. and he wondered who could be calling on him at such an early hour of the morning. 

Getting to his feet, he padded sleepily into the main living area and stifling another yawn, he opened the door. He reacted in surprise when he saw his Captain standing outside but when he registered the devastated look on his superior’s face, his world imploded. “Please Coach, don’t say it,” he whispered and turning away, he stumbled several steps before his legs started to shake uncontrollably and he stopped in the middle of the room.

Fuller walked into the apartment and paused several feet from where Tom was standing. “I’m sorry son,” he murmured softly, “Doug died a couple of hours ago.” When Tom made no comment, he stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his young charge’s shoulder. “His passing was peaceful, he never regained consciousness. The doctor said it was—”

Without turning around, Tom interrupted in an emotionless voice, “Thanks for coming over Cap’n, I really appreciate it, but I’d like to be alone.”

Surprised by Tom’s reaction, Fuller faltered for a moment before squeezing the young man’s shoulder. “Of course.” He paused for several seconds before speaking again. “I think it would be best if you took some time off. The Commissioner’s ordered an inquiry and—”

“I understand,” Tom muttered as though in a trance. “Thanks for coming over, I really appreciate it.”

For a fraction of a moment, Fuller wondered if he should leave Tom alone but he had a meeting with the Commissioner and he still had not notified his other officers of Penhall’s passing. Going against his better judgment, he again gently squeezed Tom’s shoulder. “Get some rest Hanson, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Tom gave a barely perceivable nod in reply. When he heard the door close, he remained standing in the middle of the room, the shock of the news rendering him immobile. But slowly, his senses returned and with an anguished cry, he fell to his knees. “ _NOOO!”_ he screamed hysterically as his fingers frantically tore at his hair. “OH MY GOD, DOUG! _DOUG!”_

His tormented screams echoed throughout his apartment for several minutes until a sudden, almost spiritual calm came over him. Getting slowly to his feet, he gazed around his immaculate apartment but within seconds, he was possessed with a demon-like fury. “YOU BASTARD!” he yelled and picking up a table lamp, he yanked the cord from its socket and threw it forcefully against the wall. “WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE?! _WHY?!”_

His rage became all consuming and he blindly began to smash anything he could get his hands on. He ripped cushions from the sofa and tore them to pieces, he hurled his CDs across the room and he smashed his foot through the screen of his television. During the half hour onslaught, nothing within reach remained impervious to his wrath and within minutes, his apartment resembled a war zone. 

Eventually, fatigue and emotion overwhelmed him and he once again collapsed to his knees in a flood of tears. “Doug,” he sobbed and covering his face with his hands, he rocked his body back and forth as tears streamed down his face. “Oh Doug.”

The minutes slowly ticked by and he suddenly became aware of two muscular arms pulling him into a tight embrace. Lifting his tear stained face, he gazed deep into Booker’s compassionate brown eyes. “I k-killed him,” he whispered and clutching hold of Booker’s arm, he let out a distressed moan. “Oh J-Jesus Dennis, I _killed_ him!”

“Shh,” Booker soothed softly whilst gently running his fingers through Tom’s unruly hair. “It was an accident, it was just an accident.”

Tom’s head whipped violently back and forth. “Nuh-no it wasn’t,” he hiccupped. “It wasn’t it wasn’t it wasn’t it wasn’t…”

As Tom’s voice rose hysterically, Booker pulled him into his lap and cradled him like a small child. He had no real words of comfort because the reality was, Tom _had_ killed Doug and nothing he said would ever make it right.

**

_**Tuesday March 7th 1989 (7.16 a.m.)** _

When Tom eventually stopped crying, Booker gently lifted him to his feet and placing an arm around his waist, he helped him into the bedroom. Lowering his inert body onto the bed, he picked up his legs and positioned him so he lay ensconced within the crumpled sheets. Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he tenderly brushed his hair from his wide, unblinking eyes. Concerned by the lack of response, he gently shook his shoulder. “Tommy?”

Tom remained motionless, his eyes locked in a fixed stare. A cold shiver of fear ran down Booker’s spine and he shook Tom a little more vigorously. “C’mon Tommy, you’re starting to freak me out. Look at me… look… at… me…”

A slow flicker of recognition registered on Tom’s face and when his eyes came into focus, he gazed up at Booker with pain-filled eyes. “I don’t want to be alone,” he whispered. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

Booker lay down on the bed and rested a comforting arm around Tom’s narrow waist. “I’m here for as long as you need me.”

A small flicker of gratitude played over Tom’s lips and closing his eyes, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

**

_**Tuesday March 7th 1989 (8.51 a.m.)** _

As he gazed down into Tom’s face, Booker marveled at the beauty of the man who was now sleeping peacefully, his limbs wrapped around him as though seeking protection from some unseen foe. A tremor of desire ran through his body and his heart began to palpitate with longing. Never before had he fallen so hard for someone who one minute made him so angry he wanted to throw punches and the next, made him weak at the knees with a ravenous thirst that would only be quenched if he could pull him into his arms and kiss him passionately. The conflicting emotions were both confusing and exhilarating at the same time, but ultimately, he was left feeling bereft and unfulfilled. Just looking at Tom made his cock hard and now that he was finally experiencing the sensation of holding him in his arms, he could barely control his urges. Tom was so close and yet so unattainable and it caused a physical pain in his heart. He longed to feel the tender flesh of the young officer’s lips pressing against his own and the thought had him squirming with a hot desire. He could feel his erection straining against his jeans and he quickly pushed the erotic thoughts from his mind. He was not there to seduce Tom, he was there to help him and his own unfulfilled needs would have to wait until he was home alone and he could bring himself to climax with his own hand.

With a soft sigh, he extricated himself from Tom’s tangled limbs and climbed carefully from the bed so as not to wake him. He walked into the living area and stared at the chaos around him. Broken pieces of furniture lay scattered across the room, torn photographs littered the carpet, the television was on its side, its shattered screen resembling a lunatic’s abstract art and various knickknacks lay broken, their original form now completely unrecognizable. Barely an object had survived the frenzied onslaught and it tore at his heart to think of the level of grief Tom was feeling at losing his best friend. 

Stepping through the debris, he began to clean up. Most of the items were unsalvageable and he stacked them neatly in a corner, ready to be dumped. The few items that had survived unscathed and those that could be repaired, he placed out of harm’s way, as he was well aware that another uncontrolled outburst was likely. Tom had killed his best friend and the grief and guilt would last a very long time, if not forever.

**

_**Tuesday March 7th 1989 (10.48 a.m.)** _

A soft moan escaped Tom’s lips and his body began to twitch as his nightmare took hold. He could see Doug standing in front of him, his hands held up in a _don’t shoot_ gesture. Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot echoed loudly in his ears and he watched in horror as his friend reeled backwards, clutching his chest in pain. When blood began seeping through his fingers, staining his white t-shirt, he lifted his head and gasped one word, “ _Why?_ ” 

Tom’s body shot forward and sitting bolt upright in bed, his best friend’s name expelled from his lips with a piercing scream, “ _DOUG!”_

Within moments, Booker was by his side and he collapsed against the broad chest in a flood of tears. “He’s dead!” he sobbed. “He’s really dead!”

Without thinking, Booker gathered Tom in his arms and pressing his lips against his hair, he kissed him tenderly. “It’s okay baby,” he murmured softly, “It’ll be okay.”

Tom’s body stiffened and pulling away, he lifted his head and gazed up at Booker through tear-filled eyes. “B-Baby?” he hiccupped.

A deep flush reddened Booker’s cheeks and he ran a shaky hand through his dark hair. “Um, I didn’t… sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

As the seconds ticked by, a slow realization dawned on Tom and his eyes widened in astonishment. “Dennis, are you _gay?”_

Booker’s heart hammered in his chest and he lowered his eyes to the floor. His secret was out and now, after finally getting close to Tom, he would once again be shunned because of his sexuality, just as he had been his whole life by those who had discovered the truth. Tears of shame filled his eyes but he quickly blinked them away. He would not show weakness, he was Dennis Booker and he would be damned if he would let Hanson ridicule him. 

Lifting his head, he glared back cockily. “Why? Are you afraid it’s catching?” he shot back with a snort.

Tom wiped a hand over his eyes and sniffed loudly. “No. I was just wondering, that’s all. I don’t care either way, you’ll still be Booker to me.”

Taken aback by Tom’s reply, Booker’s face relaxed slightly and he managed a faint smile. “Meaning?”

Tom’s lip twitched at the corner. “Meaning you’re still the most annoying person I’ve ever met but…” He dropped his gaze and began nervously picking at the blanket covering his legs. “You’ve really come through for me Dennis, I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

A slow smile spread over Booker’s face; Tom knew his secret and he had not pushed him away. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.


	5. Shadows of Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tuesday March 7th 1989 (10.48 a.m.)_
> 
> _A soft moan escaped Tom’s lips and his body began to twitch as his nightmare took hold. He could see Doug standing in front of him, his hands held up in a don’t shoot gesture. Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot echoed loudly in his ears and he watched in horror as his friend reeled backwards, clutching his chest in pain. When blood began seeping through his fingers, staining his white t-shirt, he lifted his head and gasped one word, “Why?”_
> 
> _Tom’s body shot forward and sitting bolt upright in bed, his best friend’s name expelled from his lips with a piercing scream, “DOUG!”_
> 
> _Within moments, Booker was by his side and he collapsed against the broad chest in a flood of tears. “He’s dead!” he sobbed. “He’s really dead!”_
> 
> _Without thinking, Booker gathered Tom in his arms and pressing his lips against his hair, he kissed him tenderly. “It’s okay baby,” he murmured softly, “It’ll be okay.”_
> 
> _Tom’s body stiffened and pulling away, he lifted his head and gazed up at Booker through tear-filled eyes. “B-Baby?” he hiccupped._
> 
> _A deep flush reddened Booker’s cheeks and he ran a shaky hand through his dark hair. “Um, I didn’t… sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”_
> 
> _As the seconds ticked by, a slow realization dawned on Tom and his eyes widened in astonishment. “Dennis, are you gay?”_
> 
> _Booker’s heart hammered in his chest and he lowered his eyes to the floor. His secret was out and now, after finally getting close to Tom, he would once again be shunned because of his sexuality, just as he had been his whole life by those who had discovered the truth. Tears of shame filled his eyes but he quickly blinked them away. He would not show weakness, he was Dennis Booker and he would be damned if he would let Hanson ridicule him._
> 
> _Lifting his head, he glared back cockily. “Why? Are you afraid it’s catching?” he shot back with a snort._
> 
> _Tom wiped a hand over his eyes and sniffed loudly. “No. I was just wondering, that’s all. I don’t care either way, you’ll still be Booker to me.”_
> 
> _Taken aback by Tom’s reply, Booker’s face relaxed slightly and he managed a faint smile. “Meaning?”_
> 
> _Tom’s lip twitched at the corner. “Meaning you’re still the most annoying person I’ve ever met but…” He dropped his gaze and began nervously picking at the blanket covering his legs. “You’ve really come through for me Dennis, I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”_
> 
> _A slow smile spread over Booker’s face; Tom knew his secret and he had not pushed him away. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35140389464/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday March 8th 1989 (6.48 a.m.)** _

Booker parked his Cadillac outside the Chapel and turned off the ignition. He remained seated, gazing out in front of him as the previous day’s events ran through his mind. After inadvertently disclosing his secret, neither he nor Tom had mentioned his sexuality again. It had been a relief to discover that Tom was not homophobic, but on the flip side, now that he was _outed,_ he knew it would make it even more difficult to keep his true feelings hidden. Hanson was obviously not bothered that he was attracted to men but how would he feel knowing he was attracted to _him?_ He feared revealing his desires through an innocent touch or look and now that he and Tom were on the path towards a real friendship, he was terrified of scaring him off. He could not lose him, not after enduring the pain that had brought them together and therefore, when Tom had asked if he would stay with him overnight, he had lied and said he had a date. As much as he wanted to comfort Tom in his hour of need, he knew he could not share a bed with him. If the couch had survived unscathed, he would have happily stayed, but the thought of lying next to Tom, knowing he was within reach and yet remaining untouchable would push him to breaking point. Then there was the other scenario. If Tom unintentionally pressed his body against him, would he be able to control his urges or would he gather him into his arms and rain soft kisses over his beautiful face? He honestly had no idea and therefore, he decided to err on the side of caution because his grandma always said, it was better to be safe than sorry.

A loud tapping at his window pulled him back to the present and he looked up with a start to see Judy standing outside. Steeling himself for an interrogation, he opened the car door and climbed out. “Hey Jude,” he greeted in a quiet voice.

Judy’s dark eyes filled with tears but her mouth was set in a firm line. “Fuller said you went to see him,” she stated in a cold voice. “Is he sorry?”

Booker exhaled heavily. “Jesus Judy, what do you think? The guy lost his best friend, he’s devastated.”

“Really?” Hoffs shot back, but her attitude started to falter and she choked back a sob as tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “Penhall’s dead,” she wept. “Oh God Dennis, why did this have to happen?”

Stepping forward, Booker pulled her into a hug. “It was an accid—”

Judy shoved Booker violently in the chest. “STOP SAYING THAT!” she yelled, her anger returning to full force. “HANSON DID THIS, AND WITH GOD AS MY WITNESS, I WILL MAKE SURE HE PAYS!”

Booker’s protective side immediately came to the fore and grabbing Judy forcefully by the arm, he looked her straight in the eye. “I’m tired of all your accusations,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Tom’s innocent, now _BACK OFF!_ ”

Yanking her arm away, Judy gave Booker a filthy look. “You don’t scare me,” she replied in a low voice. When Booker remained silent, she turned and walked away before calling back over her shoulder, “And tell Hanson to stay away from Doug’s funeral, he’s not welcome.”

**

_**Wednesday March 8th 1989 (5.31 p.m.)** _

As Booker turned the key in the lock of his apartment door, his telephone let out a shrill ring. Hurrying inside, he kicked the door closed with his foot and tossing his keys onto the table, he snatched the phone from its cradle. “Booker!”

A hesitant voice sounded down the line. “Dennis?”

Booker tightened his grip on the receiver. “Hanson, is everything okay?”

A long silence hung in the air before Tom finally spoke. “No,” he whispered, “Every time I close my eyes I see…” 

A strangled cry echoed in Booker’s ear, followed by loud sobbing and a physical pain stabbed at his heart. He should never have left Tom alone when he was suffering so much emotional grief and guilt and he mentally berated himself for being so foolish. He had taken his own feelings into consideration instead of Tom’s and he now realized how selfish he had been. Tom’s voice sounded slurred and he hoped that did not mean he had been using again. But he resolved not to lose his temper if he found Tom in an inebriated state. The last thing his new friend needed in his life was more guilt.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke calmly into the phone. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, just hang tight, okay?”

“H-Hurry,” Tom implored in a desperate voice and the line went dead.

Booker slammed down the phone and grabbing up his keys, he ran from his apartment. Ten minutes later, his Cadillac screeched to a halt outside Tom’s apartment building and rushing from the car, he took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor. His breathing labored in his chest from the exertion and stopping outside apartment 222, he called out in a breathless voice as he rapped his knuckles forcefully against the door. “Tom, it’s Dennis!”

When his frantic knocking remained unanswered, he tried the door and sighed gratefully when the knob turned easily in his hand. Pushing it open, he stepped inside and looked around him. The apartment was just as he had left it the night before, with broken furniture piled in one corner and what was left of Tom’s belongings stacked neatly in the other. As his eyes roamed the deserted room, he spied a lone photograph laying on the floor and walking over, he bent down and picked it up. Tom and Doug’s smiling faces beamed up at him from the glossy paper. They were dressed as the McQuaids, their goofy smiles, messy hair and tatty clothing giving them an adorable charm that few could resist. It was a special moment captured in time and knowing that it would never be repeated caused a lump to form in his throat. 

Placing the photo on the kitchen counter, he walked towards Tom’s bedroom. As soon as he entered, he saw Tom sitting hunched on the edge of the bed, a half empty bottle of bourbon clutched limply in his hand. “Tommy,” he murmured softly and stepping forward, he gently took the bottle and placed it on the bedside bureau. “This isn’t helping. Doug wouldn’t want you to—”

“DOUG’S DEAD!” Tom screamed and staggering to his feet, he picked up the bottle and threw it against the wall. The glass shattered on impact, leaving a brown stain in its wake and with a yell, he looked around for something else to take his anger out on. He reached for the bedside lamp but two strong arms came from behind and wrapped him in a bear hug. With his arms trapped at his sides, he found his upper body completely immobilized and so he used his feet to kick out at his assailant as he struggled to break free. “LET ME GO! LET… ME… _GO!_ ”

Booker tightened his hold, but when Tom’s head thrashed backwards, head butting him in the face, he let go with a yell and clutched his nose. “ _FUCK!_ ”

Once free, Tom spun around but a fist slamming into his chin sent him stumbling backwards and he crashed into the bureau, knocking over the lamp. Too drunk to maintain his balance, he staggered sideways and crashed to the floor in a heap. Grasping hold of his chin, he gazed up with hurt-filled eyes and to Booker’s horror, his lower lip started to tremble and a single tear trickled down his cheek.

“Oh Tommy,” Dennis whispered and forgetting his throbbing nose, he squatted down and placed a gentle hand against Tom’s flushed cheek. “You can’t keep punishing yourself like this. Drugs and alcohol are _not_ the answer.”

“W-What am I su-supposed to d-do?” Tom sobbed, his chest heaving uncontrollably. “I k-killed Doug. I sh-should be in p-prison.”

The thought of Tom alone and vulnerable in a prison full of rapists and murderers sent a cold shiver of fear through Booker’s body. Sitting back on his heels, he let out a heavy sigh. “You’re not going to prison,” he stated flatly. “We stick to our story and everything will be fine.”

Tom wiped the back of his hand across his runny nose and gazed up at Booker with bloodshot eyes. “I d-don’t think I can l-live like this.”

Booker had the unsettling feeling that Tom was about to crack. If he did, they could both kiss their careers goodbye and Tom would likely end up with a prison sentence for involuntary manslaughter. Surprisingly, the thought of losing his job did not sicken Booker as much as he thought it would. He loved being a cop but the fact that he had put his job on the line to protect Tom proved to him that it was not the most important thing in his life. The revelation was unexpected and yet comforting. Being a police office did not define him, however, protecting those he loved did. Doug was dead and nothing he said or did would change that, and therefore, he did not see the point in ruining another life in the name of justice. Tom would have to carry the guilt inside him for the rest of his life and for Booker that was justice enough.

Getting to his feet, he held out his hand. “You’re drunk and you’re not thinking straight. C’mon, let’s get you into bed and we can talk about it in the morning.”

Tom took the proffered hand and rose unsteadily to his feet. He allowed Booker to maneuver him onto the bed and when gentle hands tucked the duvet protectively around him, his lower lip started to tremble again. “I still don’t understand why you’re being so nice to me.”

A tender smile played over Booker’s lips. “I told you, it’s my one good deed for the year. Now get some sleep.”

“You’re leaving?” Tom queried in a worried voice.

“Do you want me to stay?” Booker asked a little too quickly.

Tom closed his eyes and sighed wearily. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Booker murmured softly and turning away, he walked from the room.

**

_**Wednesday March 8th 1989 (9.08 p.m.)** _

Closing the book he had been reading, Booker tossed it onto the coffee table he had repaired and glancing up at the wall clock, he stretched his arms out behind his head and let out a loud yawn. He had spent a couple of hours fixing several items of furniture before rummaging through Tom’s refrigerator and throwing together a cheese and bacon omelette. He had checked on Tom several times throughout the evening but each time he had found him snuggled under the duvet, sleeping peacefully. As he had stood staring down at Tom’s sleeping face, he found it difficult to pull his eyes away from the allure of his lips, which even in sleep, formed a seductive pout. In Booker’s eyes, he was the personification of beautiful and it amazed him that he remained single. He knew Hanson dated but the relationships never lasted long and he had seemed to spend more time with Doug than in the company of women. It was a mystery and once again, he wondered about Tom’s past. He knew so little about the man he was so infatuated with, but he longed to solve the mystery and put together the tiny pieces of the puzzle that would finally reveal the full picture of Tom Hanson.

A sudden weariness overwhelmed him and standing up, he stretched out his tired limbs and switching off the overhead light, he walked silently into Tom’s bedroom. The new moon provided no light through the window and shuffling carefully forward with his arms outstretched, he tried to find the edge of the bed but instead, he collided with the bureau, banging his knee painfully against the hardwood surface. “ _Shit!_ ” he cursed softly and bending over, he rubbed at the tender spot with his fingers. Suddenly, the room flooded with light and turning towards the bed, he saw Tom gazing up at him in confusion, his sleep-tousled hair giving him the appearance of someone much younger than twenty-three years. “It’s okay Tommy,” he whispered, “go back to sleep.”

Tom sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What are you doing?”

A soft blush heated Dennis’ face. “I um, didn’t want to wake you by turning on the light and I guess I got disorientated,” he confessed. When Tom remained silent, he gave an embarrassed smile. “There’s nowhere else to sleep so I thought…”

Without waiting for Booker to finish, Tom shuffled over to the other side of the bed and lying back down, he pulled back the covers. “So, what are you waiting for, get in.”

It was then that Booker realized Tom must have undressed sometime during the evening and he was now only wearing a pair of boxer shorts. Gazing down at Tom’s smooth chest, he felt an instant hardening of his cock and his blush deepened. Lying before him was the vision from his dreams and all he could think about was exploring Tom’s naked body with his hot, eager mouth. Blood pounded in his ears as his stress levels rose and hot tears threatened to spill from his dark eyes. He felt exposed, as if all his thoughts and desires were laid out on a platter for Tom to see and unable to cope with the humiliation, he quickly turned away. 

Tom’s soft voice penetrated through the pounding in his ears, his tone gentle and understanding. “Dennis, it’s okay. I told you, I don’t _care_ if you’re gay.”

Feeling like a fool, Booker pulled himself together and turning around, he gave Tom a wan smile. “Bi… I’m bi not gay.”

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever.”

Booker bit down on his lower lip. The problem was not that he was bisexual, the problem was that he lusted after Tom like a horny teenager and he was certain the young officer would be less than impressed to be woken in the middle of the night with a six-inch cock pressing against him. 

As if on cue, his cock hardened a little more, creating a noticeable bulge in his tight denims and mortified that his body was betraying him, he quickly cupped his hands over his groin.

A tiny smile twitched at the corner of Tom’s lips. He suddenly understood Dennis reluctance to get into bed and he let out a small chuckle. “It’s okay Dennis, we all get them, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

Tom’s words only increased Booker’s discomfort and he shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I don’t know why,” he tried to apologize in a rush. “it’s not because of you or anything it’s just—”

“One of those things,” Tom finished for him, completely unaware that it _was_ him that had caused Booker’s sudden arousal. “Yeah, sometimes it’s hard to be a male… no pun intended. Our cocks have a mind of their own.”

Booker let out a small sigh of relief. Tom was oblivious to the real reason his body was stimulated and that was just fine with him. He kicked off his boots and undressed down to his boxers and t-shirt and before Tom could speak again, he quickly jumped into bed and pulled the covers around him. All he had to do was get through the night without making a fool of himself and everything would be fine.


	6. Funeral for a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Captain Briody's eulogy is taken from the 21JS episode "Gotta Finish the Riff".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What are you doing?”_
> 
> _A soft blush heated Dennis’ face. “I um, didn’t want to wake you by turning on the light and I guess I got disorientated,” he confessed. When Tom remained silent, he gave an embarrassed smile. “There’s nowhere else to sleep so I thought…”_
> 
> _Without waiting for Booker to finish, Tom shuffled over to the other side of the bed and lying back down, he pulled back the covers. “So, what are you waiting for, get in.”_
> 
> _It was then that Booker realized Tom must have undressed sometime during the evening and he was now only wearing a pair of boxer shorts. Gazing down at Tom’s smooth chest, he felt an instant hardening of his cock and his blush deepened. Lying before him was the vision from his dreams and all he could think about was exploring Tom’s naked body with his hot, eager mouth. Blood pounded in his ears as his stress levels rose and hot tears threatened to spill from his dark eyes. He felt exposed, as if all his thoughts and desires were laid out on a platter for Tom to see and unable to cope with the humiliation, he quickly turned away._
> 
> _Tom’s soft voice penetrated through the pounding in his ears, his tone gentle and understanding. “Dennis, it’s okay. I told you, I don’t care if you’re gay.”_
> 
> _Feeling like a fool, Booker pulled himself together and turning around, he gave Tom a wan smile. “Bi… I’m bi not gay.”_
> 
> _Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever.”_
> 
> _Booker bit down on his lower lip. The problem was not that he was bisexual, the problem was that he lusted after Tom like a horny teenager and he was certain the young officer would be less than impressed to be woken in the middle of the night with a six-inch cock pressing against him._
> 
> _As if on cue, his cock hardened a little more, creating a noticeable bulge in his tight denims and mortified that his body was betraying him, he quickly cupped his hands over his groin._
> 
> _A tiny smile twitched at the corner of Tom’s lips. He suddenly understood Dennis reluctance to get into bed and he let out a small chuckle. “It’s okay Dennis, we all get them, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”_
> 
> _Tom’s words only increased Booker’s discomfort and he shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I don’t know why,” he tried to apologize in a rush. “it’s not because of you or anything it’s just—”_
> 
> _“One of those things,” Tom finished for him, completely unaware that it was him that had caused Booker’s sudden arousal. “Yeah, sometimes it’s hard to be a male… no pun intended. Our cocks have a mind of their own.”_
> 
> _Booker let out a small sigh of relief. Tom was oblivious to the real reason his body was stimulated and that was just fine with him. He kicked off his boots and undressed down to his boxers and t-shirt and before Tom could speak again, he quickly jumped into bed and pulled the covers around him. All he had to do was get through the night without making a fool of himself and everything would be fine._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170027833/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Tuesday March 14th 1989 (8.06 a.m.)** _

The day after sleeping in Tom’s bed, Booker had unofficially moved into the apartment and he felt happier knowing he could keep an eye on him and make sure he did not slip back into bad habits. It had been an unspoken agreement between them, he had shown up after work with a bag in his hand and Tom had not questioned it. 

After surviving the first night sharing a bed with the man who featured in all his sexual fantasies, Booker had slowly begun to relax around Tom. They had been sleeping side by side for less than a week but in that time, he had grown used to Tom throwing his limbs over him in the middle of the night and he now took an innocent pleasure from it. The only difficult times were when one or both of them woke up with an early morning erection. Tom seemed unfazed by it and he would give Booker a cheeky smile and take himself off to the bathroom. But for Booker, it was excruciating. He would listen to the sound of the shower, imagining Tom jerking off under the warm spray of water and with little or no stimulation, he would ejaculate forcefully into his boxers. The guilt brought tears to his eyes and he would quickly wrap a towel around his waist to hide his humiliation and sit on the end of the bed, waiting for Tom to finish so he could escape to the privacy of the bathroom. It was his own hellish shame and he silently hoped Tom would never realize that he was the source of his sexual release.

As roommates, they jelled well together and things started to improve even more when, the day after Booker moved in, they received some heartening news. The doctors at St. Mary’s had brought Ioki out of his induced coma and he was on the slow road to recovery. The young officer had no memory of the shooting and for Booker that was a relief. The last thing he or Tom needed was for someone to contradict their story.

Tom was still not back at work and he spent his free time buying replacement furniture for his apartment. He needed to keep busy, the desire to snort a line was still very much in the forefront of his mind and each passing day that brought him closer to Penhall’s final farewell, had made it that little bit more difficult. But just when he thought he had the urges under control, Fuller dropped a bombshell the day before Doug’s burial. The District Attorney had laid charges against him and just to add a little icing to the cake, he was not welcome at the funeral.

The news had hit him hard. In his mind, he had honestly come to believe that Penhall’s shooting was an accident and to again face the horrifying truth that he was responsible because of his own selfish indulgences had him spiraling into a deep pit of depression. He immediately turned to alcohol, although his real desire was cocaine. But with Booker living with him, that was an impossible dream. Even though he now faced charges, without Booker’s testimony to the contrary, there was no real evidence to prove the shooting was anything more than an accident. But he knew if he strayed and began using again, that testimony would become a reality and he would be looking at a prison sentence.

Now, as Booker was preparing to leave for Doug’s service, he felt his resolve faltering. His best friend was going to his final resting place and he would not be there to say goodbye. It was a cruel ending to a tragic story and he wanted nothing more than to slip into oblivion and never wake up.

Booker exited the bathroom and walking over to where Hanson stood, he wrinkled his nose in disgust when he smelled the alcohol on his breath. “Jesus Tom, it’s eight in the morning, don’t you think it’s a little early?”

Tom scowled and turning away, he poured himself another drink. “I’m pretty sure the day you bury your best friend you’re exempt from being monitored by the alcohol police,” he muttered irritably, “so get off my case.”

Not wanting to start an argument, Booker refrained from biting back. Instead, he placed an arm around Tom’s shoulders. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

Jerking away, Tom glared crossly at his roommate. “Do I fucking look okay?” he snapped.

Booker sighed softly. “No, you look like hell,” he replied truthfully. When Tom made no reply, he continued. “There’s nothing I can do Tom, Fuller’s specifically requested you don’t come and—”

“Just go,” Tom shot back moodily. “I don’t need to listen to your bullshit excuses.”

Booker opened his mouth to retort but when he saw the genuine pain in Tom’s eyes, he remained silent and turning away, he exited the apartment.

**

_**Tuesday March 14th 1989 (9.56 a.m.)** _

Captain Briody stood over Penhall’s rosewood coffin and gazing out over the small crowd of mourners gathered by the graveside, he delivered the eulogy. “When you're a cop, there's nothing new to learn about when it comes to death. There's no new novelty to it, no new insight to ponder over, to think about. I guess we all know there's a lot of things out there that get us, end us, bring up that final roll call. Since I've been a cop on the force for these past twenty-two years, I can't count the times I've stood here and done this. But I remember every one like it was my son's first communion and it stings...” He paused for effect before adding, “and I think it's a frickin' tragedy that Officer Penhall died at the hands of one of his own, a comrade, a brother in arms…”

Judy cast a teary eye in Booker’s direction but she received no acknowledgment that he had seen her and turning back towards the casket, she tightened her grasp around the rose in her hand. She and Doug had shared several tender moments together and she could not help but wonder what life would have been like if they had actually started dating. But now she would never know. Doug was gone and she would forever be left guessing.

Wiping a tear from her eye, she hoped with all her heart that Hanson would pay for taking the life of such a beautiful soul.

**

_**Tuesday March 14th 1989 (10.28 a.m.)** _

Secreted in an alleyway, Tom leaned over and opening his Mustang’s glove box, he pulled out a small notepad and a baggie of cocaine. He was only fifteen minutes from home but he could not wait. A burning fire of pain and guilt raged deep within his mind and soul and the only way he knew to extinguish it was to give his body what it needed; cocaine. He could no longer bear to feel, to know, to care, all he longed for was the numbness that would help him forget that today was the day they would cover his best friend in dirt and he would become nothing more than a name engraved on a headstone.

With a shaky hand, he pulled his credit card from his wallet and crudely cut a line on the crumpled notepad. Once satisfied, he ducked his head and snorted the white powder up his nose through a one-dollar bill. Pinching his nostrils lightly together between his thumb and forefinger, he inhaled deeply and with a sigh, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. As the drug entered his system, he felt the thrill he had craved since Penhall’s death and a small, satisfied smile played over his lips. But as the minutes passed, he knew it was not enough. The high, along with the numbing of his mind was only fleeting. He needed more but he risked detection and if Booker ever found out he was using again, he could kiss his freedom goodbye.

A sudden fear gripped his heart. Unable to cope with the devastating reality of Penhall’s death, he had pushed aside the frightening actuality that the District Attorney had filed charges against him. The thought terrified him because if Harry regained his memory of the shooting, his and Booker’s account would come under question and in all probability, even without proof that he was high on cocaine, a guilty verdict would be handed down. 

It was then that a plan formed in his mind. He would not sit around and wait for a jury of his so-called peers to decide his fate because he knew it was only a matter of time before his façade crumbled and the horrifying truth would be revealed.

Therefore, there was only one thing for him to do, he would pack a bag, and run.

**

_**Tuesday March 14th 1989 (2.33 p.m.)** _

Booker shook Fuller’s hand and watched in silence as his superior left the bar. The majority of mourners had left an hour before but he, Fuller and Judy had stayed behind and exchanged treasured memories of Doug. But for Booker, the tales seemed incomplete without Tom’s recollections of the moments he had shared with his best friend. However, knowing Judy’s feelings about Hanson, he did not mention their portrayal as the McQuaids or their uniquely brother-like closeness. Instead, he quietly listened as they honored a man whose humor and benevolence would be remembered forever.

Shrugging into his leather jacket, he downed the last of his drink and turned to go, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Judy sitting alone at a table. He had said goodbye to her minutes before and he wondered why she had not left. A deep feeling of sadness filled his heart as he stared at her bowed head. Apart from Tom, Judy was taking Doug’s death the hardest and in spite of her animosity towards Hanson, he felt deeply sorry for her. Putting his keys back in his pocket, he walked over to her table and pulling out a chair, he sat down. “Do you need a ride?” he asked softly.

Judy lifted her head and gave Booker a wan smile. “No, I just needed a moment alone before driving home. It’s been… _emotional_ , you know?”

Booker started to stand up. “Yeah, I know,” he replied quietly, “I’ll leave you—”

A cold hand clutched his arm. “I changed my mind,” Judy interrupted in a teary voice. “I don’t want to be alone Booker, because when I am, all I see...” A loud racking sob tore through her sentence like a jagged wound and she collapsed against Booker’s chest. “Oh God, all I see is his terrified face! You were there, you saw him, was he frightened? Was he in pain? Please! I need to know because the not knowing is driving me crazy!”

Holding Judy in his arms, Booker struggled to keep his own voice from cracking with emotion. “When I got to him, I think he was in shock. He only uttered one word… _Tommy_.”

Judy let out a shocked gasp and pulling away from Booker’s hold, she stared at him with wide eyes. “He knew? He _knew_ Hanson shot him?”

Realizing his mistake, Booker quickly shook his head. “N-No, that’s not… I mean, it was more like he was calling for Tom, not—”

Scraping her chair violently backwards, Judy stood up and glared coldly down at Booker. “Oh he knew. Of _course_ he knew and his very last thought would have been why? Jesus, I don’t know how Hanson sleeps at night knowing—”

“He doesn’t know,” Booker interjected softly. “I haven’t told him.”

Grabbing up her coat, Judy gave him a hard look. “Then maybe you should tell him so he knows that Doug hated him for what he did, just like the rest of us do.”

**

_**Tuesday March 14th 1989 (3.28 p.m.)** _

Walking into the apartment, Booker threw his jacket onto the couch and called out Tom’s name. When he received no answer, a shiver of foreboding ran down his spine and he hurried into the bedroom. “Tommy are you…?” 

But his sentence remained unfinished as he pulled up short in the middle of the room and gazed around him at the chaotic scene. Items of clothing lay discarded on the floor, open drawers revealed little or no contents and the closet was all but empty. It did not take a genius to know what had happened and sitting down heavily on the bed, he buried his face in his hands. 

Tom had taken his belongings and run.


	7. Living in an Empty World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tuesday March 14th 1989 (3.28 p.m.)_
> 
> _Walking into the apartment, Booker threw his jacket onto the couch and called out Tom’s name. When he received no answer, a shiver of foreboding ran down his spine and he hurried into the bedroom. “Tommy are you…?”_
> 
> _But his sentence remained unfinished as he pulled up short in the middle of the room and gazed around him at the chaotic scene. Items of clothing lay discarded on the floor, open drawers revealed little or no contents and the closet was all but empty. It did not take a genius to know what had happened and sitting down heavily on the bed, he buried his face in his hands._
> 
> _Tom had taken his belongings and run._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170027753/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Six months later - Friday September 1st 1989 (7.14 a.m.)** _

The sensation of several tiny legs massaging his scalp, coupled with a full bladder, pulled Tom from his nightmare and back into consciousness and with a disgusted growl, he swiped a two-inch cockroach from his hair. Sitting slowly up in bed, he gazed through bleary eyes at the insect that now lay on its back, its spindly legs waving frantically in the air as though silently screaming for help. He watched in fascination as it fought an internal battle but when his need to urinate became too strong, he leaned over and picking up his boot, he raised it above his head. But just as he slammed his hand towards the floor, he had a change of heart and stopping just inches away from the struggling vermin, he tossed his Doc Marten to one side and using his fingers, he gently turned the roach over. The six-legged creature appeared surprised to be back on its legs and pausing for a moment, it waved its long antennae in what appeared to be a gesture of gratitude before scuttling behind the battered chest of drawers.

With his need to urinate now becoming an issue, Tom staggered unsteadily to his feet and using the nicotine stained walls as support, he stumbled across the threadbare carpet of the tiny room and into the equally small bathroom. Steadying himself with a hand against the chipped porcelain basin, he sighed contentedly as he relieved his aching bladder. He pulled the chain and after washing his hands, he lifted his gaze and stared at his reflection in the mottled mirror. Two bloodshot eyes glared back at him, each underlined by dark smudges, giving testament to his unhealthy lifestyle. The flickering fluorescent lighting highlighted his need for a shave and his skin appeared sallow. Leaning in closer, he licked his lips and he could immediately feel the dry, jagged edges of skin against his tongue. With a sigh, he raked a trembling hand through his dirty hair and attempted to think back to when he had been happy. But the memories were faded, like yellowing photographs from long forgotten times and he struggled to latch onto a particular time, a particular place or a particular person where he could honestly say he had been carefree and content with his life. Except… except… but he quickly pushed the unwanted image from his mind. Doug was gone and to bring his memory back to the surface was just too painful.

Turning away from his fragmented reflection, he walked back into the main room and sitting on the bed, he searched through the pockets of his jeans with a trembling hand. He needed something to take the edge off but he came up empty. Grabbing his wallet, he stared in dismay at the solitary two-dollar bill. After withdrawing all his savings six months ago and selling his Mustang, he was now officially broke and a feeling of panic gripped at his heart. Without money, he could not afford his rent but what terrified him the most was, without money, he had no drugs.

A cold sweat chilled his skin and he shivered involuntarily; he was in the words of the urban poets, screwed.

**

_**Friday September 1st 1989 (8.42 a.m.)** _

The Los Angeles vice squad was a far cry from the Jump Street program but for Booker, it was a chance to feel like a real cop. After Tom’s unexpected vanishing act, he had thrown himself back into work as a way of dampening the pain in his heart. He felt used and abused by the man he had put his career on the line for but most of all, he felt foolish. It was a harsh reality check to realize he had been taken in so readily by allowing his cock to rule his head. He should have seen Tom for what he really was; a self-absorbed and heartless prick.

But he had picked himself up and dusted himself off in true Booker fashion and with his new found enthusiasm, (or, if he was completely honest with himself, his determination to keep busy so he would _not_ lust after Tom) he had eagerly flung himself back into his job. However, in the aftermath of Penhall’s death, the Chapel became a very different working environment to what it had been. Unable to cope with the loss of her friend, Judy had asked for a transfer. Fuller had hesitated at first but as the weeks turned into months, he quickly realized that her grief was too insurmountable and he rubber-stamped her requisition. The next to go was Harry. After several months of rehabilitation, he had been back at the Chapel only a few weeks when he advised Fuller he had applied to join the vice squad. It had been another blow for the middle aged Captain but when Ioki accepted the position, he gave him his blessing. However, that decision was ultimately Jump Street’s undoing and a week later, word came through that the mayor was shutting the program down. Harry immediately suggested to Booker that he apply for a position in vice and after an agonizing week of not knowing, he finally received the answer he was waiting for. 

He was in like Flynn.

However, teaming up with Harry had been both a blessing and a curse. The two officers worked well together but for Booker, there was always the underlying guilt about Harry’s shooting. Whilst Ioki had no recollection of the events, Booker carried with him the knowledge that Tom was ultimately responsible and he felt extremely ashamed that he was keeping such a vital piece of information from his partner. However, too much water had passed under the idiomatic bridge for him to own up to his lies and therefore, he had learned to live with his transgression and moved on.

But on the odd occasion when he caught Harry subconsciously tracing a finger over the five inch scar hidden beneath his shirt, his mind wandered back to that fateful night and it would take him days to once again, rid the image of Tom from his mind.

**

_**Friday September 1st 1989 (9.38 a.m.)** _

Pushing open the door of the disused warehouse, Tom struggled to walk in an upright position. His need for a hit of heroin had now reached the point that he was going into withdrawal. He felt severely agitated and he had trouble keeping track of his thoughts. The cramping in his stomach was almost unbearable and his sweat drenched t-shirt clung to his thin frame. For anyone who had known Tom, it was a devastating sight to behold but if they looked past the obvious; the dirty hair, sunken eyes and skeletal frame, therein still lay a beautiful man, whose chocolate brown eyes could draw you in with a bat of their ridiculously long lashes.

It took Tom several seconds to adjust to the dimness of the warehouse and holding onto the wall for support, he called out in a shaky voice. “Drexl! It’s Tom. Are you there man? I really need—”

“Keep your fuckin’ voice down,” Drexl snarled and stepping out from the shadows, he gave Hanson the once over. “Geez Tommy, you look like shit.”

Hanson managed a twitchy smile. “I’m really hurting Drex, but I’m low on cash so I thought—”

“Tsk, tsk Tommy,” Drexl admonished in a slow, mocking voice. “You know the rules, no credit, not even for my favorite customers.”

Tom’s dark eyes grew wide with desperation and staggering forward, he clutched at the drug dealers sleeve. “But I _need_ it Drex! I’m good for it, honest. If you could just give me a little something, you know, to see me through I promise I’ll pay you back… I _promise!_ ”

Drexl cast his eye over Tom’s trembling body. Beneath the filthy clothes and greasy hair was a breathtakingly attractive man and an idea suddenly formed in his mind. Smiling sweetly, he draped a companionable arm across Tom’s bony shoulders. “You know what Tommy? I think we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

“R-Really?” Tom responded in an excited tone that was several pitches higher than his usual timbre. “Fuck Drex, I really appreciate it.”

A slow, sinister smile played over Drexl’s full lips and he gave Tom’s shoulders a squeeze. “Nah Tommy, you’ve got it all wrong. You see, _others_ are gonna appreciate it, once you start work that is.”

Confusion flashed in Tom’s watery eyes and swiping a filthy sleeve across his runny nose, he tried to comprehend the meaning of Drexl’s words. “Work? What kind of work do you—” But his question remained unspoken as long fingers suddenly began to caress his cock through his denims. Taking an unsteady step backwards, he stared at the dealer in bewilderment. “W-What are you doing?” he stammered in a shocked voice. “I d-don’t understand.”

Drexl stepped forward and popping the button of Tom’s jeans, he slowly lowered the zipper. “You see Tommyboy,” he murmured seductively as he reached inside and released Tom’s cock from the confines of his thin cotton boxers. “You’ve got something men want. Clean yourself up a bit and you’ll find several dead presidents crossing your palm… or more accurately, _my_ palm, if you get my drift.”

Tom’s body froze in fear and he barely heard Drexl’s words over the hammering of his heart. He tried to pull away, but his deadened soul started to feed off the exhilarating sensation mounting between his legs and a low moan rumbled deep in his throat before bursting unrestrained through his partially open lips. Closing his eyes, he reveled in the sensation as inquisitive fingers stroked and fondled his neglected cock and a fire ignited within him. His sexual appetite had dwindled with his increased drug use and he rarely bothered to pleasure himself anymore. But now, the sensuous feeling added a new craving to his already hunger ravaged body and thrusting his hips forward, he urged Drexl on, wanting more, _needing_ more, desperate for some kind of human contact to fill his empty world. Up until that moment, he had not realized how much he missed the touch of another’s hand but now that the memory had been reawakened, he wanted nothing more than to be caressed all day long.

When warm breath tickled his ear, he struggled to hear Drexl’s silky voice over the pounding of blood in his ears. “I’ll give you everything you need,” the drug dealer crooned, his fist working expertly over Tom’s erect shaft. “I’ll give you drugs, I’ll pay your rent and all you have to do is lie there and look pretty. Whatcha say Tommyboy, is it a deal?”

“ _Mmm_ ,” Tom murmured softly. Drexl’s words formed no cognitive meaning in his preoccupied mind; his only focus was on the wondrous sensation that was erupting between his legs. He had forgotten how titillating and thrilling a great hand job could feel and he gave his whole mind over to the heat that was burning deep inside his soul, bringing it to life after months shrouded in darkness. His desires were slowly reawakening under the teasing stimulation of Drexl’s skilled hand and his addled mind wondered how he could have existed for so long without it.

Sensing that Tom had been living in a sexual vacuum, Drexl smiled wickedly and shoving him against the wall, he mashed his mouth over the smaller man’s parched lips and forcing them open with his tongue, he kissed him violently. Tom struggled against the invasion but the burning in his loins soon had him whimpering in submission and he willingly gave into the dominant kiss. Drexl’s fingers continued to move over his erection and he was quickly reaching the point of no return. Precum leaked from his cockhead, coating the drug dealer’s fingers in the viscous fluid and making it easier for his fist to pump over the long shaft in his hand.

Tom’s legs began to tremble uncontrollably, making standing difficult and moments later, his hips jerked forward and with a strangled cry, his life’s seed shot forth, coating Drexl’s t-shirt and fingers with his seminal fluid. 

Abruptly breaking the kiss, Drexl did not waste any time on post-climactic canoodling. Wiping his hand on his soiled t-shirt, his lip curled into a cruel, slightly sadistic grin and trailing a warm finger down Tom’s flushed cheek, he gave a hollow laugh. “Now you’re mine.”

The words resonated in Tom’s brain but he felt no terror or revulsion at the statement. For the first time in a very long time, he craved intimacy almost as much as he craved heroin. It was not love, he knew he was incapable of feeling _that_ emotion and neither did he want to. Love caused pain and he was too used to the empty void in his heart to want to replace it with something that hurt so damn much. But casual sex was a different animal entirely. It was a way for him to feel that nerve-jangling euphoria as the brain’s receptors produced dopamine and flooded it into his system. It was pleasure without guilt, without pain, without love. It was release, nothing more, nothing less.

A slow tilting smile played over his lips and cocking his head on one side, he gave Drexl a cheeky grin in return. “So when do I get my drugs?”


	8. Stoking the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: When warm breath tickled his ear, he struggled to hear Drexl’s silky voice over the pounding of blood in his ears. “I’ll give you everything you need,” the drug dealer crooned, his fist working expertly over Tom’s erect shaft. “I’ll give you drugs, I’ll pay your rent and all you have to do is lie there and look pretty. Whatcha say Tommy boy, is it a deal?”_
> 
> _“Mmm,” Tom murmured softly. Drexl’s words formed no cognitive meaning in his preoccupied mind; his only focus was on the wondrous sensation that was erupting between his legs. He had forgotten how titillating and thrilling a great hand job could feel and he gave his whole mind over to the heat that was burning deep inside his soul, bringing it to life after months shrouded in darkness. His desires were slowly reawakening under the teasing stimulation of Drexl’s skilled hand and his addled mind wondered how he could have existed for so long without it._
> 
> _Sensing that Tom had been living in a sexual vacuum, Drexl smiled wickedly and shoving him against the wall, he mashed his mouth over the smaller man’s parched lips and forcing them open with his tongue, he kissed him violently. Tom struggled against the invasion but the burning in his loins soon had him whimpering in submission and he willingly gave into the dominant kiss. Drexl’s fingers continued to move over his erection and he was quickly reaching the point of no return. Precum leaked from his cockhead, coating the drug dealer’s fingers in the viscous fluid and making it easier for his fist to pump over the long shaft in his hand._
> 
> _Tom’s legs began to tremble uncontrollably, making standing difficult and moments later, his hips jerked forward and with a strangled cry, his life’s seed shot forth, coating Drexl’s t-shirt and fingers with his seminal fluid._
> 
> _Abruptly breaking the kiss, Drexl did not waste any time on post-climatic canoodling. Wiping his hand on his soiled t-shirt, his lip curled into a cruel, slightly sadistic grin and trailing a warm finger down Tom’s flushed cheek, he gave a hollow laugh. “Now you’re mine.”_
> 
> _The words resonated in Tom’s brain but he felt no terror or revulsion at the statement. For the first time in a very long time, he craved intimacy almost as much as he craved heroin. It was not love, he knew he was incapable of feeling that emotion and neither did he want to. Love caused pain and he was too used to the empty void in his heart to want to replace it with something that hurt so damn much. But casual sex was a different animal entirely. It was a way for him to feel that nerve-jangling euphoria as the brain’s receptors produced dopamine and flooded it into his system. It was pleasure without guilt, without pain, without love. It was release, nothing more, nothing less._
> 
> _A slow tilting smile played over his lips and cocking his head on one side, he gave Drexl a cheeky grin in return. “So when do I get my drugs?”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35591315440/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Five weeks later - Saturday October 7th 1989 (9.17 p.m.)** _

The rusty antique bed frame bit into the flesh of Tom’s palms and shifting his position slightly, he pushed backwards so the middle-aged man’s cock penetrated deeper into his anus, stimulating his prostate. The bed rocked on its thin iron legs, its weakened joints squealing in angry protest at the load it was forced to bear. Tom could feel the hardness of the metal frame digging into his knees through the worn mattress, but the discomfort in no way diminished the gratification he derived from the feel of the man’s thick cock pounding into him. Drexl had him flying high on a variety of pills that increased his libido and heightened his sexual pleasure, making him a valuable plaything for those who were prepared to pay top dollar. He had the boyish looks and supple body that men desired but they were fussy too. Track marks were a turn off and so the drug dealer had instructed him to shoot up sparingly. Heroin dulled the sexual appetite and therefore, it was strictly off limits during working hours. But the brightly colored pills and a snort of cocaine was all he needed and the combination had his mind and body screaming for stimulation. His enthusiasm for sex made him a favorite amongst Drexl’s clients. He had all the attributes horny middle-aged men craved, beauty, charm, passion and an eagerness to please; nothing was off limits. 

He was the model whore.

The man’s thrusting became more frenetic and Tom’s sweat slicked body quivered with anticipation. His fully erect cock jutted out in front of him, the force of the man’s thrusts causing it to bounce against his belly and he longed to reach down and touch himself, to run his fingers over his aching shaft, but it was against the rules. Each _client_ had their own special requests and _Daddy Carl_ (as the man fucking him liked to be called) always wanted him to climax through the pleasure of his love making alone. However, that sometimes caused problems for Tom because many of the drugs in his system caused delayed ejaculation. He had suffered quite a few beatings at the hands of the more aggressive men because in their eyes, his inability to reach orgasm reflected on their performance. But in a bizarre twist, the pain of a beating was all he needed to push him over the edge and as his client’s fists slammed into him, he would achieve some of his most explosive orgasm. However, for Drexl, the beatings were a double-edged sword. He wanted to keep his customer’s happy but a bruised and bloody whore lowered the asking price, and therefore, during the downtime Tom needed for his contusions to fade, he had found another use for him. Surprisingly, Tom was extremely adept at his new line of work and he continued to earn his keep when he was unable to turn tricks. His drug habit had become an expensive outlay for Drexl but for the dealer, it was well worth the expenditure. However, he carefully monitored Hanson’s drug intake, making certain he remained a _functioning_ junkie and not a useless piece of shit that was incapable of making money. It was vital that Tom remained in good shape because he was proving to be a living goldmine and as long as he remained addicted, he was putty in Drexl’s hands.

A stubbled chin rasped against the skin on the back of Tom’s neck as Daddy Carl leaned in close. “Who’s been a naughty boy?” he puffed against Tom’s ear. “Who needs to be punished?”

Tom knew the part he had to play and lowering his head in submission, he let out a soft whimper. “I do sir, I’ve been a _very_ bad boy.” However, his words were not just role-play, they had a tremor of truth behind them because he _had_ been bad and he _did_ deserve to be punished. But those were not thoughts he admitted to himself because to do so, would have him crying out in anguished pain.

Daddy Carl let out an excited growl. “Do you like me fucking you?” 

Again, Tom’s answer had a genuine ring of truth to it. “Yes,” he moaned, as precum leaked heavily from his cockhead. “I like it Daddy Carl… I like it.”

Grabbing hold of Tom’s wrists, Daddy Carl rammed his cock deep inside Tom’s abused body. “Then come for me you little whore!”

When the man’s cock slammed against his prostate, Tom felt an explosion of pleasure and with a strangled cry, he ejaculated forcefully, splattering his torso with his semen. Seconds later, Daddy Carl screamed out his delight and digging his fingernails into the tender flesh of Tom’s wrists, he shuddered out his release. Heavy breathing echoed throughout the small room and withdrawing his softening cock, Daddy Carl collapsed on top of Tom, and pulling him into his arms, he rained soft kisses over his face. “You’re such a beautiful boy,” he murmured softly, “Daddy Carl loves you very much.”

It was the moment Tom hated and his body stiffened against the undesired affection. Any display of true loving intimacy awakened his humanity and the veil in his mind would slip, revealing the unwanted memories he had managed to keep suppressed for the past seven months. The detachment he felt over Amy’s death would be the first unwelcome thought to filter slowly through and his indifference niggled at his conscience. But it was the excruciating pain of Doug’s shooting that had him reaching for a needle and it was only when the heroin entered his system that he was able to pull the veil back over his emotions and bury them deep in the recesses of his mind… until the next time.

**

_**Tuesday October 10th 1989 (2.28 p.m.)** _

Entering the bustling vice squad operations room, Booker wound his way through the rows of wooden desks, each piled high with folders and paperwork that reflected Los Angeles ongoing struggle against prostitution, illegal firearms and drugs. Stopping at Harry’s desk, he dragged up a chair and straddling it backwards, he rested his arms on the wooden back and leaned forward. “So what’s so important you had to drag me down here on my day off,” he admonished in a teasing voice. “Now I’m gonna miss Santa Barbara and you know Eden’s about to remember that she killed Raoul and—”

Harry did not find Booker’s attempt at humor the slightest bit amusing and with a scowl, he pushed a manila file across the desk. “We have a new player in town,” he advised in a flat voice. “He’s working for Drexl Marks and word on the street is he’s good at what he does. He’s moved more drugs in the last few months than any other dealer we know and I’m talking the good shit, not schoolyard stuff. He’s dangerous.”

A moody pout quickly replaced Booker’s teasing smile. “I was on stakeout for seventy-two hours straight and when I _finally_ get a day off to, oh I dunno, _relax_ , you call me in to tell me there’s another drug dealer in town? Jesus Ioki, we work in vice, there are _always_ gonna be drug dealers in town and I don’t think—”

“Look at the file,” Harry interrupted in a quiet voice, “then tell me I was wrong to call you in.”

Sighing heavily, Booker picked up the folder and pulling out the paperwork, he began to read. The brief contained several key pieces of information. Drexl’s new right-hand man had the nickname _Prettyboy_. He was young, attractive and good at what he did. Since coming on the scene, he had expanded Drexl’s operation into several adjacent neighborhoods, effectively taking money away from the well-known Latino gang _Todas las Sangres_ and there were rumors of an imminent drug war between the deadly rivals.

Tossing the folder onto Harry’s desk, Booker’s expression sobered. “Okay, I get it. If this war erupts, things are gonna get bad. Do we know what this _Prettyboy_ looks like? Maybe we can bust him and prevent a bloodbath.”

Harry’s expression remained grim and pulling out an 8x10 photograph, he slowly slid it across his desk towards Booker.

As Dennis gazed down at the familiar face, the room suddenly became too hot and a wave of nausea washed over him, blurring his vision. 

_Prettyboy_ was Tom.

When the photo finally came back into focus, he gazed at it with wide eyes as he ran a trembling hand over his mouth. “Are you sure?” he whispered, desperate for it to be a joke but knowing in his heart that it was not, and as he continued to gaze into Tom’s beautiful face, a little part of his soul died. 

Picking up the photo, Harry slipped it into the folder and gave Booker a gloomy look. “Geoff and Nate took dozens of incriminating photos during a stakeout, there’s no mistake, Hanson’s Drexl’s protégé.” When Booker remained silent, he dropped the final bombshell. “There’s something else you should know, he’s a hardcore junkie and he makes money for Drexl by prostituting himself.”

Once again, the room closed in on Booker and staggering to his feet, he turned and stumbled towards the restroom. So blinded by grief, he careened into several desks, eliciting angry cries of _“Watch it Booker!”_ and _“What the fuck’s your problem?”_

He finally made it to the bathroom and pushing open the door, he staggered inside, only just making it to the basin before he threw up his lunch. Clutching hold of the cold porcelain, his stomach lurched again and he continued to heave until he had nothing left to expel. The smell of the vomit assaulted his nostrils and turning on the faucet, he flushed the offending liquid down the drain before rinsing out his mouth.

Lifting his head, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror and tears filled his eyes. The man he had fallen in love with was gone, swallowed up by his addiction and the chances of him ever turning his life around were slim to nothing. He was a criminal, a junkie and a whore and when they busted him, he would go to prison for a very long time.

The squeak of the door opening made him jump and he hurriedly wiped the tears from his eyes. Harry’s reflection joined his in the mirror and a gentle hand squeezed his shoulder. “It’s kind of shocking huh?”

Spinning around, Booker dark eyes filled with anguish. “He’s in pain,” he muttered in an attempt to justify Tom’s actions. “He lost his best friend and instead of being there, everyone turned against him. “

Ioki instinctively traced a finger over the area of shirt covering his scar. “Except you,” he replied in a cool voice. “You stood by him. Why is that?”

A hot flush colored Booker’s cheeks and he turned his head so the tenderness flaming in his eyes would not give him away. “He was innocent,” he mumbled.

Lowering his hand, Harry gave his partner a stony look. “Innocent men don’t run,” he stated coldly, “and even if they did, Tom sure as hell isn’t innocent now. He’s a drug dealer and we need to get him off the streets. Agreed?”

A crippling pain stabbed at Booker’s heart but he knew what he had to do. He was a cop and Tom was a criminal. Any genius could do the math.

Lifting his head, he gave his reply, “Agreed.” 

It was one small, insignificant word but it was powerful enough to destroy another piece of his soul.

**

_**Tuesday October 10th 1989 (11.49 p.m.)** _

A cool fall breeze fluttered in through Tom’s open window and hunching closer to the candle's naked flame, he used the end of a syringe to stir the brown liquid heating on a spoon. Once satisfied the heroin had dissolved, he placed a small cotton ball into the solution and inserting the syringe, he slowly pulled back the plunger, drawing up the drug into the plastic cylinder. Discarding the spoon, he placed the syringe between his teeth and tying a rubber tourniquet around his arm, he tightened it until a usable vein popped into sight. Taking hold of the syringe, he carefully inserted the needle into the bluish line and pressed down on the plunger. Instant gratification flooded through his body as the drug hit his system and with a contented sigh, he withdrew the needle and leaning back against the bed, he closed his eyes.

He was finally free.


	9. The Long and Winding Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Picking up the photo, Harry slipped it into the folder and gave Booker a gloomy look. “Geoff and Nate took dozens of incriminating photos during a stakeout, there’s no mistake, Hanson’s Drexl’s protégé.” When Booker remained silent, he dropped the final bombshell. “There’s something else you should know, he’s a hardcore junkie and he makes money for Drexl by prostituting himself.”_
> 
> _Once again, the room closed in on Booker and staggering to his feet, he turned and stumbled towards the restroom. So blinded by grief, he careened into several desks, eliciting angry cries of “Watch it Booker!” and “What the fuck’s your problem?”_
> 
> _He finally made it to the bathroom and pushing open the door, he staggered inside, only just making it to the basin before he threw up his lunch. Clutching hold of the cold porcelain, his stomach lurched again and he continued to heave until he had nothing left to expel. The smell of the vomit assaulted his nostrils and turning on the faucet, he flushed the offending liquid down the drain before rinsing out his mouth._
> 
> _Lifting his head, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror and tears filled his eyes. The man he had fallen in love with was gone, swallowed up by his addiction and the chances of him ever turning his life around were slim to nothing. He was a criminal, a junkie and a whore and when they busted him, he would go to prison for a very long time._
> 
> _The squeak of the door opening made him jump and he hurriedly wiped the tears from his eyes. Harry’s reflection joined his in the mirror and a gentle hand squeezed his shoulder. “It’s kind of shocking huh?”_
> 
> _Spinning around, Booker dark eyes filled with anguish. “He’s in pain,” he muttered in an attempt to justify Tom’s actions. “He lost his best friend and instead of being there, everyone turned against him. “_
> 
> _Ioki instinctively traced a finger over the area of shirt covering his scar. “Except you,” he replied in a cool voice. “You stood by him. Why is that?”_
> 
> _A hot flush colored Booker’s cheeks and he turned his head so the tenderness flaming in his eyes would not give him away. “He was innocent,” he mumbled._
> 
> _Lowering his hand, Harry gave his partner a stony look. “Innocent men don’t run,” he stated coldly, “and even if they did, Tom sure as hell isn’t innocent now. He’s a drug dealer and we need to get him off the streets. Agreed?”_
> 
> _A crippling pain stabbed at Booker’s heart but he knew what he had to do. He was a cop and Tom was a criminal. Any genius could do the math._
> 
> _Lifting his head, he gave his reply, “Agreed.”_
> 
> _It was one small, insignificant word but it was powerful enough to destroy another piece of his soul._
> 
> __
> 
> **
> 
> __
> 
> _Tuesday October 10th 1989 (11.49 p.m.)_
> 
> _A cool fall breeze fluttered in through Tom’s open window and hunching closer to the candle's naked flame, he used the end of a syringe to stir the brown liquid heating on a spoon. Once satisfied the heroin had dissolved, he placed a small cotton ball into the solution and inserting the syringe, he slowly pulled back the plunger, drawing up the drug into the plastic cylinder. Discarding the spoon, he placed the syringe between his teeth and tying a rubber tourniquet around his arm, he tightened it until a usable vein popped into sight. Taking hold of the syringe, he carefully inserted the needle into the bluish line and pressed down on the plunger. Instant gratification flooded through his body as the drug hit his system and with a contented sigh, he withdrew the needle and leaning back against the bed, he closed his eyes._
> 
> _He was finally free._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35809567472/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Friday October 13th 1989 (8.49 p.m.)** _

The sound of footsteps echoed in the disused warehouse and lifting his head, Tom smirked as he watched two men slowly approach him. But as they drew closer, the grin froze on his face when he realized it was Booker and Ioki heading towards him. His heart hammered in his chest and wiping a shaky hand over his mouth, he struggled to gain his composure as his fight or flight response kicked in. Memories of Doug’s shooting flooded into his mind and he began to panic. He was not in any fit mental state to meet the accusatory stare of the man whose injury was his fault, but more importantly, he could not face Booker. Dennis had been the only one to stand up for him, to offer him comfort when he needed it and to put his job on the line by lying in his report. He owed the dark haired officer so much and his repayment had been to disappear into the night without a trace. It had been the coward’s way out and he did regret it… but only up to a point. Self-preservation was a strong human emotion and he stood by his decision to flee rather than stay and face trial. But now, confronted with the same dilemma, the decision did not seem quite so easy… should he run and once again dodge arrest or should he stay and face Booker?

As the two men approached him, he made his determination and getting up off the crate he was sitting on, he gave his former friends a smug smile. “Geez, if I’d known you were coming I’d have baked a cake.”

Booker’s lips twitched at the corner but Ioki’s expression remained stony. “You’re under arrest Hanson,” he stated in a cold voice.

Tom’s eyes twinkled in amusement. “For what? Sitting on a crate in a disused warehouse?” he scoffed. “Run back to Jump Street fellas and go play dress up.”

Stepping forward, Ioki pulled out his badge. “Thanks to you, Jump Street’s gone,” he replied curtly. “We work in vice now.”

A loud laugh erupted from between Tom’s lips. “Ooo… scary,” he teased. “You finally made it to the big boys. I guess being shot has some perks.”

With a loud yell, Ioki rushed forward but Booker quickly intervened, putting himself between Tom and the furious officer. “Settle down Harry,” he instructed. “There’s been enough bloodshed.”

Ioki pointed an angry finger at Tom. “BECAUSE OF HIM!” he yelled. “HE’S RESPONSIBLE FOR _EVERYTHING!_ WHY DO YOU KEEP PROTECTING HIM?”

“Yeah Booker, why _do_ you keep protecting me?” Tom goaded, his eyes flashing teasingly. “Is it ‘cause you think I’m hot?”

Spinning around, Booker jabbed a finger into Tom’s chest. “You need to shut the fuck up,” he growled in a low voice. “This isn’t a joke, we’re here to arrest you.”

Tom let out a bored sigh. “And again I ask… for _what?_ ”

Booker’s dark eyes filled with sadness. “Yesterday you sold ten grand’s worth of heroin to two undercover cops. The deal was recorded, we have the evidence, I’m sorry Hanson but this time you’re screwed.”

“Really?” Tom shot back but his bravado was beginning to slip and he ran a nervous hand over his mouth. “So how come they didn’t arrest me?”

Pushing past Booker, Ioki gave Tom a victorious look. “Because _I_ wanted to have the pleasure of snapping the cuffs on you,” he smirked. “So we set up another bogus buy, just so I could fulfill my fantasy.”

Realizing that he had been setup, Tom’s dark eyes flashed in fear. But as adrenalin began to pump through his body, a maniacal smile parted his lips. “May the best man win,” he murmured and without warning, he slammed his fist into Ioki’s face.

With a yell, Ioki withdrew his gun but Tom was too coked up to care about his safety and he charged forward and tackled the man who was threatening his freedom. The gun discharged, the bullet harmlessly hitting the wooden crate and Tom grabbed Harry’s wrist, twisting it until the Glock clattered to the cement floor. But Harry quickly gained the upper hand and lunging at Tom, he let out a guttural yell… and collapsed unconscious on top of him.

Shocked by the turn of events, Tom pushed Harry off him and panting heavily, his eyes focused on Booker. The young officer was standing silently above him, the muzzle of his gun held in his hand. Getting slowly to his feet, Tom gazed down at the bloody wound on the back of Harry’s head and he raked a shaky hand through his hair. “You hit him,” he stated in a soft voice. “Jesus Christ Booker, you _hit_ him.”

Booker turned towards Tom, his beautiful dark eyes full of panic and confusion. “Run,” he whispered.

Tom hesitated for a moment before holding out his hand. “Come with me.”

Booker’s eyes darted from Tom to Ioki and back again. Those three little words had the capacity to change two lives forever; he could help Tom, bring him back from the dark side so he was once again the honest, loyal man he had been and _he_ would get to have the man he loved in his life, if only as a friend. But it was a huge gamble, he could lose his job and his livelihood and there was no guarantee that Tom would accept his help. It was one of the most important decisions of his life and gazing back down at Ioki, his stomach knotted in panic. His partner was hurt but Tom was right there, asking him to go with him and he needed to make a decision, right there, right now and all he could do was pray to whichever God was listening that he made the right one.

Standing up, he moved towards the door. “Let’s go,” he instructed in a strained voice, “but we call an ambulance—”

“No need,” Tom grinned and grabbing Booker by the arm, he pulled him towards the exit. “He’s waking up.”

Booker turned his head and saw Ioki struggling to sit up and he faltered for a moment. But the sensation of cold steel pressing against the back of his neck had him quickening his pace. “Tommy,” he muttered as fear gripped his heart, “what are you doing?”

Tom grinned feverishly. “It’s just for show, you don’t want ol’ Harry thinking you left with me voluntarily do you?”

The ingenuity of the plan surprised Booker and he suddenly remembered what an exceptional police officer Tom had been. He had always had the ability to think on his feet and it was obviously a trait that even as a junkie, he had managed to retain.

Once outside, the two men sprinted towards Booker’s Cadillac and climbing inside, they slammed the doors closed just as Ioki staggered from the building. Tom pointed the gun at Booker and smirked. “Drive.”

Switching on the ignition, Booker slammed the car into gear and took off with tires squealing. He immediately headed for the heart of the city in the hope that they would soon be lost in the heavy L.A. traffic. Sweat trickled down his face and he gripped the steering wheel with such force, his knuckles turned white. 

He was on the run.

Tom leaned back casually in his seat and let out a low laugh. “Man, I didn’t think you had it in you,” he chuckled. “I always figured you were full of hot hair, but you really _are_ a rebel.”

“Shut up, I need to think,” Booker snapped angrily. His heart was racing and adrenalin coursed through his veins, leaving him feeling uptight and yet somewhat exhilarated. He had no idea what had possessed him to do what he had done, but there was no escaping the fact that he had done it… he had knocked out his partner and was now on the run with a wanted drug dealer. His life had become the script of a bad B grade movie; Tom was the good cop gone bad and he was the hero, hell bent on making everything right again. It would be far-fetched and laughable in the eyes of those watching except it was real, he was living it and he had no idea how he had let it get so fucked up. He still loved Tom, he was honest enough with himself to admit that but never in his life had he given his heart so completely to someone who did not and could not, love him back. Tom was straight and even if what Ioki said was true and he _was_ turning tricks, it was not because he enjoyed gay sex. He was an addict and addicts would agree to almost anything to get a fix. That was the reality and like it or not, he had to accept it.

“We need to leave the city,” he finally declared in a flat voice.

Tom appeared unfazed by the statement. “Whatever, but I need to pick up a few things first.” 

Booker turned his head and looked at Tom suspiciously. “What things?”

Shoving his gun in the waistband of his jeans, Tom shrugged. “You know… _things_. Clothes and stuff.”

Although Booker wanted nothing more than to get out of the city, he reluctantly agreed. “Okay, but make it quick.”

Tom gave directions to an apartment building in South Central L.A. Climbing up the worn steps, Booker wondered if Tom even noticed the rundown surroundings he lived in. It was a depressing testament of how much his life had changed and the upfront reality of it was extremely confronting; the once proud man was living in a hovel. 

Stopping outside a paint-chipped door, Tom took out a key and turned it in the lock. He sauntered inside and noticing Booker’s sympathetic expression, he let out a laugh. “It’s the maid’s day off.” 

Booker gave a weak smile but inside, his heart was breaking. Tom’s tiny home consisted of only two rooms, a living/kitchen/bedroom area and a bathroom. Looking around him, he noticed that the apartment was not very clean; dirty clothing littered the floor, the sink was stacked with dirty dishes and the only real luxury was a small television with a cracked screen. It was shocking to think that there were people in America who lived in such basic conditions and Booker suddenly appreciated how fortunate he was to have a job and an apartment that was bigger than a dog kennel. But then the realization slowly dawned on him, Tom had been just as lucky and yet he had thrown it all away in favor of a life of drugs and corruption. It was not circumstances that had him living the way he was; true poverty through unemployment, low wages or ill health was a social crime against humanity but Tom’s socioeconomic downfall was by choice and therefore, Booker felt little sympathy. 

As Tom hastily threw several articles of clothing into a small bag, Booker wandered into the bathroom and immediately spied a baggie of white powder sitting next to the sink. A hot rage boiled inside his soul and ripping open the plastic, he sprinkled the heroin into the sink.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Tom yelled from the doorway, but he was too late and without hesitation, Booker turned on the faucet and washed the drugs down the drain.

Running forward, Tom shoved Booker violently in the chest. “YOU BASTARD!” he screamed. “HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY HOME AND—”

“And what?” Booker shot back angrily. “Try and _help_ you? I’m telling you now Hanson, if you want to use then the deal’s off and I swear to God I’ll arrest you now and to hell with the consequences.”

Tom’s anger turned into desperation and grabbing hold of Booker’s sleeve, his dark eyes implored with the young officer. “But, you don’t understand! I need it!” 

To Booker, Tom sounded like a whiny child in a toy store and shaking his arm free, he gave him a cold look. “No you don’t,” he replied sternly. “From now on you’re going cold turkey.”

Opening his mouth to protest, Tom quickly closed it again when he saw Booker’s warning look. He decided to play along, at least for a few hours and once they arrived at their destination, he would slip out when Booker was asleep and score himself a hit. Turning away, he picked up his bag. “C’mon, we need to find us a car.”

Booker’s brows knitted together in confusion. “What do you mean? We’ve got the Caddy.”

Tom’s eyes rolled in exasperation. “They’re gonna be looking for your ride, _genius_ ,” he scoffed. “We need to get new wheels.”

It was Booker’s turn to roll his eyes. “Jesus Christ, tone down the street talk, you sound like a fucking dick.”

An amused smile twitched at the corners of Tom’s lips. “Interesting choice of insult,” he smirked. “I guess I don’t have to ask what’s on _your_ mind.”

Hurt by the reference to his sexuality, Booker immediately bit back. “Yeah? Well from what I’ve heard, you’re not averse to a bit of gay loving.” 

Tom’s eyes clouded over before his lips parted in a cocky smirk. “You make it sound so _dirty_ ,” he snorted. “It’s not that bad… actually, come to think of it, we now have something in common, ‘cause _you_ know _exactly_ what it feels like when a guy rams his c—”

“Don’t,” Booker growled through clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to me. I’m not a whore, I would never let someone treat me like a piece of meat.”

“Yeah?” Tom replied brashly. “Well that’s where you and I are different. I don’t give a shit.”

Booker cast a slow eye up and down Tom’s body. “It shows,” he shot back rudely and turning away, he walked from the apartment.


	10. Crashing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Stopping outside a paint-chipped door, Tom took out a key and turned it in the lock. He sauntered inside and noticing Booker’s sympathetic expression, he let out a laugh. “It’s the maid’s day off.”_
> 
> _Booker gave a weak smile but inside, his heart was breaking. Tom’s tiny home consisted of only two rooms, a living/kitchen/bedroom area and a bathroom. Looking around him, he noticed that the apartment was not very clean; dirty clothing littered the floor, the sink was stacked with dirty dishes and the only real luxury was a small television with a cracked screen. It was shocking to think that there were people in America who lived in such basic conditions and Booker suddenly appreciated how fortunate he was to have a job and an apartment that was bigger than a dog kennel. But then the realization slowly dawned on him, Tom had been just as lucky and yet he had thrown it all away in favor of a life of drugs and corruption. It was not circumstances that had him living the way he was; true poverty through unemployment, low wages or ill health was a social crime against humanity but Tom’s socioeconomic downfall was by choice and therefore, Booker felt little sympathy._
> 
> _As Tom hastily threw several articles of clothing into a small bag, Booker wandered into the bathroom and immediately spied a baggie of white powder sitting next to the sink. A hot rage boiled inside his soul and ripping open the plastic, he sprinkled the heroin into the sink._
> 
> _“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Tom yelled from the doorway, but he was too late and without hesitation, Booker turned on the faucet and washed the drugs down the drain._
> 
> _Running forward, Tom shoved Booker violently in the chest. “YOU BASTARD!” he screamed. “HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY HOME AND—”_
> 
> _“And what?” Booker shot back angrily. “Try and help you? I’m telling you now Hanson, if you want to use then the deal’s off and I swear to God I’ll arrest you now and to hell with the consequences.”_
> 
> _Tom’s anger turned into desperation and grabbing hold of Booker’s sleeve, his dark eyes implored with the young officer. “But, you don’t understand! I need it!”_
> 
> _To Booker, Tom sounded like a whiny child in a toy store and shaking his arm free, he gave him a cold look. “No you don’t,” he replied sternly. “From now on you’re going cold turkey.”_
> 
> _Opening his mouth to protest, Tom quickly closed it again when he saw Booker’s warning look. He decided to play along, at least for a few hours and once they arrived at their destination, he would slip out when Booker was asleep and score himself a hit. Turning away, he picked up his bag. “C’mon, we need to find us a car.”_
> 
> _Booker’s brows knitted together in confusion. “What do you mean? We’ve got the Caddy.”_
> 
> _Tom’s eyes rolled in exasperation. “They’re gonna be looking for your ride, genius,” he scoffed. “We need to get new wheels.”_
> 
> _It was Booker’s turn to roll his eyes. “Jesus Christ, tone down the street talk, you sound like a fucking dick.”_
> 
> _An amused smile twitched at the corners of Tom’s lips. “Interesting choice of insult,” he smirked. “I guess I don’t have to ask what’s on your mind.”_
> 
> _Hurt by the reference to his sexuality, Booker immediately bit back. “Yeah? Well from what I’ve heard, you’re not averse to a bit of gay loving.”_
> 
> _Tom’s eyes clouded over before his lips parted in a cocky smirk. “You make it sound so dirty,” he snorted. “It’s not that bad… actually, come to think of it, we now have something in common, ‘cause you know exactly what it feels like when a guy rams his c—”_
> 
> _“Don’t,” Booker growled through clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to me. I’m not a whore, I would never let someone treat me like a piece of meat.”_
> 
> _“Yeah?” Tom replied brashly. “Well that’s where you and I are different. I don’t give a shit.”_
> 
> _Booker cast a slow eye up and down Tom’s body. “It shows,” he shot back rudely and turning away, he walked from the apartment._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170027463/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Friday October 13th 1989 (9.58 p.m.)** _

After leaving the apartment, Booker had reluctantly abandoned his Cadillac in a narrow alleyway while Tom went in search of a car. Despite the ex-officer’s reassurances, he was fairly certain he would never see his beloved vehicle again but it was a price he was willing to pay to help out his… _friend? Nemesis? Ex co-worker?_ The more he thought about it, the more he realized he had no idea how to label his and Hanson’s relationship; all he knew for certain was what he _wanted_ it to be. However, that longing was an unattainable dream, Tom would never be his lover, no matter how hard he wished for it and there was no use kidding himself. He needed to put all his lustful thoughts out of his mind and concentrate on what was important… getting Tom clean.

When Hanson pulled up several minutes later in a stolen sedan, the full force of what he was doing hit him hard and he remained frozen to the pavement. The blare of the horn pulled him out of his reverie and jumping slightly, he peered through the window. Tom sat in the driver’s seat gesturing impatiently with his hand and he knew it was now or never; he could walk away and go back to his life or he could go on the run with the man he adored.

Walking around to the driver’s side, he yanked open the door. “I’m driving.”

“How come you get to drive?” Tom asked with a childish pout. “I boosted the car, I should be the one to—”

“No way,” Booker replied in a flat voice, “I’m not going anywhere with you behind the wheel. If you want me to come along, then I drive.”

Tom’s lower lip protruded further and at that very moment, he looked so beautiful it took all of Booker’s willpower not to bend down and suck on the inviting flesh. But he quickly shook the thought from his mind and grabbing Hanson by the arm, he hauled him out of the car. “ _You_ can navigate.”

A cheeky smile spread over Tom’s face. “Sure thing _Officer,_ ” he smirked and walking around the sedan, he climbed into the passenger seat. 

A heavy scowl creased Booker’s brow. He did not need reminding that he was an officer of the law and what he was doing was anything but lawful. “Don’t call me that,” he growled.

Tom grinned to himself. Pissing Booker off was the most fun he had experienced in a very long while, but there was an ulterior motive for his teasing. His craving for a hit was becoming an issue and if he could keep himself entertained, he was less likely to feel the effects of his withdrawal.

**

_**Saturday October 14th 1989 (12.11 a.m.)** _

Two hours later, a moody silence had replaced Tom’s taunting banter. He was jittery, feeling irritable and his bones and muscles ached, which were all signs that his body was going into withdrawal. When Booker pulled up outside a motel, he let out a sigh; all he needed to do was patiently wait for the dark haired officer to fall asleep and he could go in search of a dealer.

While Booker paid for a room, he waited beside the car and glanced around at their surroundings. They were in what appeared to be a quiet part of San Diego and he wondered if Booker had chosen that particular location on purpose. Quiet meant very little crime and very little crime meant very few drug dealers. It was a blow to his already agitated mind. He _needed_ a fix, _something… anything_ to take the edge off his symptoms and when he realized he might not get the relief he craved, the hand of panic gripped at his heart, slowly squeezing it in its tendril-like fingers until he started to hyperventilate. If he did not get something into his system soon, his body would go into full-blown withdrawal, and the thought terrified him.

When Booker returned with a room key, he saw Tom leaning heavily against the hood of the sedan, struggling to catch his breath. He did not need a doctor to know what was happening; Tom was going through the beginnings of withdrawal. 

Moving forward, he placed a hand on Hanson’s quivering shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”

“FUCK OFF!” Tom snapped crossly and picking up his bag, he snatched the key from Booker’s hand and strode across the parking lot. Reaching the room, he struggled to insert the key in the lock, but because his hands were shaking uncontrollably, it slipped from his fingers and with a frustrated yell, he angrily kicked at the door. “FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER!” 

Booker bent down and calmly picked up the key. “Yeah,” he smiled, “that door’s a real sonofabitch.”

Tom did not find Booker’s statement the least bit humorous and when the door opened, he pushed roughly past him and barged into the room. Tossing his bag onto the double bed, he began to pace across the rose-patterned carpet as his distress intensified. Booker walked in and closing the door, he surveyed the room. He knew what he had to do and he quickly scoped out a suitable area before stating, “I need to go out and get supplies.”

It was the moment Tom had been waiting for and he knew he needed to play it cool so as not to arouse any suspicion. Flopping down onto the bed, he picked up the remote and flicked on the TV. “Okay,” he replied calmly, “and while you’re out, maybe grab us something to eat.”

A small knowing smile played over Booker’s lips as he moved towards the bed. “It’s pretty late,” he stated as he carefully reached for his handcuffs, “but I might be able to find a pizza bar that’s still open.”

“Whatever,” Tom replied as he stared at the television. “As long as it’s— _HEY!”_

Booker quickly snapped the cuff around Tom’s wrist and before the younger man could react, he secured the adjoining manacle to one of the metal rails adorning the headboard. “It’s for your own protection,” he advised in a soft voice.

Tom’s eyes flashed furiously and struggling to a sitting position, he attempted to pull his hand free. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” he screamed and the more trapped he felt, the more his hysteria increased. “LET ME GO! YOU’VE NO FUCKING RIGHT YOU PRICK! LET… ME… _GO!”_

A heavy sadness filled Booker’s heart but he kept his resolve. “I can’t,” he replied quietly, “because if I do, you’ll be out the door looking for a fix. I’m doing this for _you_ Tommy, I—”

“BULLSHIT!” Tom yelled with such force that spittle flew from his lips. “BULL… FUCKING… _SHIT!_ YOU’RE ENJOYING THIS! YOU’RE FUCKING ENJOYING IT!”

A dark cloud flashed across Booker’s eyes and stepping forward, he glared angrily down at Tom. “ _Enjoying_ it?” he seethed through clenched teeth. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me? I’ve put my career on the line for you… _again!_ No one gives a fuck about you except me… _ME!_ So why don’t you quit your sniveling and start thanking me, you selfish, ungrateful prick!”

A heavy silence hung in the air until Tom finally spoke. “I hate you,” he muttered in a petulant voice and rolling onto his side as best he could, he curled into the fetal position and closed his eyes.

“Yeah? Well stiff shit,” Booker replied in a flat voice and turning away, he stormed from the room.

**

_**Saturday October 14th 1989 (1.26 a.m.)** _

When Booker returned to the motel, he found Tom curled up on the bed, shaking violently. He put down the bag of toiletries he had bought and carried a couple of vending machine sandwiches over to the bed. “Are you hungry?” he asked softly.

Tom’s eyes remained closed as he slowly shook his head. “I feel sick,” he mumbled miserably.

Placing the sandwiches on the chest of drawers, Booker took out a key and unlocking the cuff from the headboard, he placed it around his own wrist and snapped it closed. Hearing the _click_ , Tom’s eyelids fluttered open and staring up at Booker, he held his trembling hand up in disbelief. “Are you shitting me?” he muttered. 

Booker’s expression remained serious. “No, I’m not.”

Too tired to argue, Tom closed his eyes again and let out an irritable sigh. “Fine, I’ll let you have your fantasy, you sick pervert.”

An eruption of anger coursed through Booker’s body and yanking at Hanson’s wrist, he pulled him into an upright position. “Since when did you become such a homophobic prick?” he growled into Tom’s startled face. “Is it when you started letting men fuck you? Huh? Is that it? Does it make you feel like less of a whore when you insult me?”

Tears of pain and fatigued filled Tom’s dark eyes and his lower lip started to wobble. “I’m sorry,” he spluttered as the tears trickled down his cheeks. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Seeing the distress on Hanson’s face, Booker immediately felt a pang of remorse. “Yeah, I’m sorry too,” he sighed, “this whole situation is kinda freaking me out. I didn’t mean to call you—”

“Don’t say it again,” Tom whispered, his teary eyes clouding over with pain. “I know what I am, I don’t need you reminding me.”

Booker’s heart thudded painfully and reaching out a hand, he tenderly brushed Tom’s long bangs from his face. “Get some sleep.”

Tom sniffed loudly and lying back down, he drew his legs up to his chest and wrapping his unrestrained arm around them, he closed his eyes.

With his appetite now gone, Booker lay down and staring up at the ceiling, he listened to the mindless chatter on the television until he too, finally drifted into oblivion.

**

_**Saturday October 14th 1989 (6.16 a.m.)** _

With a soft _click_ , Booker attached the handcuff to the bed and rising carefully from the mattress, he gazed down at Tom’s sleeping face. They had spent a fitful night cuffed together, with Tom’s withdrawal sickness growing steadily worse as the hours slowly ticked by. He was now suffering from stomach cramps and severe sweating, making sleep almost elusive. But as dawn broke over the horizon and a soft light filtered in through the ill-fitting curtains, he had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, although his body continued to tremble as it went through its violent withdrawal.

Getting slowly to his feet, Booker wandered sleepily into the bathroom and closed the door. After relieving his aching bladder, he stepped into the shower and turned on the faucets until a warm spray cascaded over his tired body. He felt tense, his neck and shoulders aching from the tension in his body and reaching down, he ran his fingers over his flaccid cock. He knew it was inappropriate but more than anything, he needed release and as his cock lengthened beneath his touch, he let out a low moan. Visions of Tom lying naked and vulnerable filled his mind and making a fist, he began to pump his hand over his burgeoning erection. The words, _“Fine, I’ll let you have your fantasy, you sick pervert,”_ silently taunted him but it in no way dampened the internal fire that burned in his loins. Tom _was_ his fantasy and he made no apology for it. Everyone had their own dirty little daydream… the man lying in the next room just happened to be his.

“Tommy,” he groaned softly and with a suppressed cry, he shot his semen over the tiled wall. His body tingled from head to foot as his orgasm shuddered throughout his body and lowering his head, he struggled to catch his breath. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal and a post-climactic calm washed over him. But as his heartbeat slowed and the pounding in his ears lessened, a small frown creased his brow. Seconds later, he was running from the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist, he charged into the bedroom to find Tom screaming hysterically, his face bright red with humiliation as he frantically pulled at the manacle around his wrist. “LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO! YOU BASTARD! LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!”

Booker stared with wide eyes at the urine soaked bed sheet and his heart once again began to hammer in his chest. He had become so caught up in his own sexual gratification that he had not heard Tom frantically yelling that he needed to go to the bathroom, and unable to free himself from the handcuffs, he had lost control of his bladder. “Oh Jesus Tom,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear—”

“WHY?” Tom cried, as tears of shame spilled from his eyes. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Booker answered in a shaky voice. “I was in the shower and I didn’t hear you.”

Covering his face with his free hand, Tom began to sob uncontrollably, his thin shoulders trembling violently with his grief. Booker quickly grabbed the key from the small table and squatting down on the floor, he unlocked the cuff that he had attached to the bed. Tom instantly staggered to his feet and stumbling blindly across the room, he entered the bathroom, slamming the door behind him with such force, the painting above the bed rattled on its hook.

“Shit,” Booker muttered to the empty room and balling up the sodden bed linen, he threw it to the floor. He had embarrassed Tom in the most degrading way possible and he wondered if the ex-cop would ever be able to forgive him.

**

_**Saturday October 14th 1989 (9.04 a.m.)** _

Tom spent the next few hours alone in the bathroom. He managed to shower but as the withdrawal sickness continued to ravage his already weakened body, he found his strength rapidly declining and desperate for comfort, he crawled out of the bathroom on his hands and knees. “Dennis,” he moaned, as a sharp pain racked his body, “please help me.”

Booker glanced up from the newspaper he was reading and a look of genuine concern flashed in his dark eyes. “Oh Tom,” he murmured sadly and moving across the room, he helped his friend to his feet and guided him over to the freshly made bed. “I know it’s tough but you’ll get through this.”

“When?” Tom bleated softly before grimacing with pain as another cramp shook his body. 

“Soon,” Booker reassured quietly. “I promise.”

**

_**Saturday October 14th 1989 (3.14 p.m.)** _

“I CAN’T DO THIS!” Tom screamed wildly from where he was crouched in a corner of the room. “I FUCKING HATE YOU FOR DOING THIS TO ME! I HATE YOU!”

Booker let out a weary sigh. “I didn’t do it to you Tom, _you_ did. All I’m trying to do is help you.”

“NO YOU’RE NOT!” Tom yelled irrationally in reply. “IF YOU CARED ABOUT ME YOU’D NEVER MAKE ME GO THROUGH THIS! I’M DYING! CAN’T YOU SEE? I’M DYING!”

“No you’re not,” Booker replied quietly. “You’re withdrawing. It’s tough, I know, but it’s the only way.”

“Fuck you!” Tom spat, his violently quivering body slamming against the wall behind him. “Get the fuck out of my sight. I hate you! I fucking _hate_ you!”

Tired of all the abuse, Booker stood up. He had no qualms about leaving Tom uncuffed, the younger man could barely crawl to the bathroom, let alone go outside. “Fine,” he grunted gruffly. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” and picking up the key, he walked out the door.


	11. Broken Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Saturday October 14th 1989 (3.14 p.m.)_
> 
> _“I CAN’T DO THIS!” Tom screamed wildly from where he was crouched in the corner of the room. “I FUCKING HATE YOU FOR DOING THIS TO ME! I HATE YOU!”_
> 
> _Booker let out a weary sigh. “I didn’t do it to you Tom, you did. All I’m trying to do is help you.”_
> 
> _“NO YOU’RE NOT!” Tom yelled irrationally in reply. “IF YOU CARED ABOUT ME YOU’D NEVER MAKE ME GO THROUGH THIS! I’M DYING! CAN’T YOU SEE? I’M DYING!”_
> 
> _“No you’re not,” Booker replied quietly. “You’re withdrawing. It’s tough, I know, but it’s the only way.”_
> 
> _“Fuck you!” Tom spat, his violently quivering body slamming against the wall behind him. “Get the fuck out of my sight. I hate you! I fucking hate you!”_
> 
> _Tired of all the abuse, Booker stood up. He had no qualms about leaving Tom uncuffed, the younger man could barely crawl to the bathroom, let alone go outside. “Fine,” he grunted gruffly. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” and picking up the key, he walked out the door._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170027373/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Saturday October 14th 1989 (6.46 p.m.)** _

Tom remained hunched in the corner and as the hours slowly passed, the symptoms of his withdrawal intensified. Perspiration dripped from his body and sweat stains quickly dampened his clothing, creating a stale aroma in the small room. Mucus dripped from his nose and his eyes became watery, giving him the appearance of someone suffering from a cold. He also found himself unable to stop scratching at his arms as unseen bugs crawled continuously under his skin, the weird sensation slowly driving him crazy. But worst of all were the debilitating stomach cramps that had him doubled over in pain, crying uncontrollably as snot streamed from his nose. It felt like death and he longed for it to be over so he could finally find peace.

When Booker returned with a bag of takeaway food, he found Tom curled in a ball next to a pool of his own vomit. He had his arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen as full body tremors racked his thin frame and Booker immediately began to have second thoughts about making him go cold turkey. For a split second, he considered going out and scoring something to help alleviate his friend’s pain but he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. If Tom were to turn his life around, the first thing he needed to do was get clean.

Putting down the brown paper bag, he walked into the bathroom and dampened two towels. The first he threw over the foul smelling liquid on the floor and sitting down on the brightly patterned carpet, he used the second to dab gently at the sweat coating Tom’s face.

“Leave… me… alone,” Tom muttered through chattering teeth. “I don’t want… your… fucking… sympathy.”

Booker sighed and putting down the towel, he gave Tom an exasperated look. “Trust me, it’s not sympathy. You need help and I’m all you’ve got, so you’d better get used to it.”

“Fuck… you,” Tom spat in a shaky voice. “If you really… meant that… you’d get me… something… to help me… through this.”

Climbing slowly to his feet, Booker spoke in a gentle but firm voice. “You know I can’t do that.”

“BULLSHIT!” Tom screamed, his eyes flashing with red-hot hatred. “You’re enjoying this! You think… I deserve to be—” but his words turned into a guttural heave, and dropping his head, he vomited onto the floor. “Oh God,” he groaned softly, “why… won’t you… _help_ me?”

Determined not be swayed by the pain in Tom’s voice, Booker squatted down and tenderly brushed his friend’s sweaty hair from his face. “I _am_ helping you,” he murmured, “and one day, you’ll thank me for being such a bastard.”

Tom pushed himself up to a sitting position and swiping his sleeve across his mouth, he staggered to his feet. “Keep your… fucking… hands… off me,” he snarled.

It took all of Booker’s willpower not to unleash on Tom all the pent up anger and frustration he was feeling but he remained calm and instead, he watched in stony silence as the once proud police officer lurched unsteadily across the room. When the bathroom door slammed shut with a forceful bang, he stood up and stared at the vomit on the floor. He knew he should clean it up but a part of him rebelled against it. _“It’s Tom’s fucking mess, he should deal with it,”_ he thought to himself and even in his mind, his voice sounded petulant. But he was tired of all the crap and he wondered what had ever possessed him to try to save Tom’s ass for a second time when the first had caused him nothing but pain and heartache.

__However, it was no mystery, he knew the answer all too well. He was in love and love made you do the wacky.__

**

 _ **Saturday October 14th 1989 (8.15 p.m.)**_

The sound of traffic filtered in through the open window, pulling Booker from a light doze. Sitting up in bed, it took him several moments to orientate himself in the darkened room but once he realized where he was, his eyes quickly searched for Tom. He felt a moment of panic when he saw the room was empty but as his other senses kicked in, he heard the sound of running water coming from the bathroom and he let out a sigh of relief. 

Getting to his feet, he switched on the overhead light and immediately spotted the vomit on the floor. He had been so pissed off after his altercation with Tom, he had not bothered to clean it up, preferring instead to lie on the bed and silently berate himself for being such a chump. The words _“keep your fucking hands off me,”_ had echoed constantly in his mind, taunting him to the point where salty tears trickled down his face, soaking into the pillow beneath his head and it was only when his brain screamed _enough!_ that he finally found the peace he craved by falling asleep. 

With a resigned sigh, he dropped to his knees and mopped up the two puddles of vomit with the discarded towels. Not wanting to deal with anymore questions from the motel’s manager, he decided to rinse them out in the shower and it was then that his ears tuned back into the sound of running water. Leaving the soiled bath sheets on the floor, he stood up and walking over to the bathroom, he rapped his knuckles on the door. “Tommy, is everything okay in there?” 

His question was met with silence and turning away, his eyes settled on the brown bag of takeaway sitting on the small table and as though on cue, his stomach growled with hunger. Sitting down, he devoured one of the cold burgers and a bag of fries in record time and leaning contentedly back in his chair, he let out a loud burp. But his relaxed mood lasted only moments when the hum of water once again sounded in his ears. Tom had now been in the shower for over thirty minutes and that could only mean one of two things; he was taking a really long time getting clean, or something had happened. 

A cold fear gripped at Booker’s heart and jumping to his feet, he ran across the room and banged his fist against the bathroom door. “Tommy! If you don’t answer me right now, I’m coming in!” 

Receiving no answer, he tried the handle and when it turned freely in his hand, he burst through the door. 

Tom sat crouched on the shower floor, his naked body trembling beneath a cascade of steaming water. It was a shock for Booker to see just how much weight Tom had lost but what was most disturbing were the deep gouges that streaked his forearms where he had ripped his nails down the flesh in an attempt to rid himself of the unseen insects that he was convinced had burrowed under his skin. Blood mixed with the warm water, sending pink rivulets running down his arms before they flowed into the drain and the sight was so gut wrenching, Booker stood staring with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Oh Tommy,” he whispered. “What have you done?” 

Lifting his head, Tom gazed up at Booker with panicked eyes as he continued to rake his nails down his torn skin. “The-there’s s-something inside m-me. I c-can’t get it out.” 

Booker quickly stepped forward and reaching inside the cubicle, he turned off the faucets. Squatting down, he gently took hold of Tom’s hand to stop him from hurting himself further. “There’s nothing there,” he reassured gently, “it’s the withdrawal from the drugs. You’re hallucinating.” 

“A-Are you sure?” Tom asked in a frightened voice that sounded childlike in his desperation to believe. “Are you _really_ sure?” 

Smiling tenderly, Booker nodded his head. “I’m sure. Now, let’s get you dry.” 

Tom allowed his friend to help him up from the tiled floor and standing naked in the middle of the bathroom, he wrapped his arms around his quivering body. Booker searched for a towel before remembering he had used them both to clean up the vomit. Placing an arm around Tom’s waist, he helped him into the bedroom and pulling a sheet from the bed, he placed it around his shoulders. 

Clutching the thin cotton sheet around him, Tom continued to shake violently. Concerned that he was going into shock, Booker sat him on the bed and squatting down, he placed a warm hand on his knee. “I think we need to get you to a doctor.” 

Tom violently shook his head back and forth, sending tiny droplets of water out into the atmosphere. “N-No,” he replied through chattering teeth. “I’m just c-cold. I’ll b-be okay in a m-minute.” 

Booker was convinced that Tom was _anything_ but okay and so he tried again to reason with him. “Tommy, I really think it would be—” 

“I can’t go to prison!” Tom cried out and clutching at Booker’s arm, his dark, desperate eyes pleaded with his friend to understand. “P-Please Dennis, if I go to h-hospital they’ll arrest me!” 

Realizing that what Tom was saying was true, Booker reluctantly backed down. “Okay,” he murmured softly, “but if you get any worse—” 

“I won’t,” Tom replied quickly. “I just n-need to get some s-sleep.” 

Reaching out, Booker lovingly pushed Tom’s dripping hair away from his eyes. “First things first. Let’s get you dried off.” 

The physical drain on Tom’s body from the drug withdrawal had him feeling too weak to stand and so he remained seated as Booker gently patted him down with the bed sheet. He was past feeling any shame or embarrassment; he had buried those emotions deep within his psyche when the first man had pushed his erect cock deep inside him. It was a coping mechanism, a way to deal with the humiliation of selling his body to horny, middle-aged men just so he could support his habit and he was so used to being devoid of such feelings, he lived on autopilot most of the time. But now that the drugs were leaving his body, he was terrified of what he would once again feel and that was just as difficult to deal with as the physical symptoms themselves. 

When a gentle hand ruffled his hair, his thoughts came back to the present and looking up, he gazed down at the man kneeling in front of him. “What would I do without you?” he murmured softly. 

Booker’s heart pitter-pattered at the tenderness in Tom’s voice and sitting down on the bed, he put an arm around his shoulders and hugged him close. But the intimacy of strong arms cradling him protectively opened the floodgates of Tom’s mind and thoughts of Amy and Doug came pouring in, swamping him with painful, unwanted memories. 

“I can’t do this!” he cried out and pulling away, he staggered to his feet, his eyes wide with emotion. 

“Tom, what is it? What’s wrong?” Booker asked worriedly and standing up, he tried to pull Tom back into his arms. 

Tom’s hands flew to his head and stumbling backwards, the sheet slipped from his shoulders, leaving him naked. “DON’T!” he screamed hysterically as his fingers ripped at his hair. “I DON’T DESERVE LOVE, I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T…” 

The high-pitched mantra cut through the air like a knife and frightened for Tom’s sanity, Booker held up his hands and backed away. “Okay, okay,” he reassured in a soothing voice, “I won’t touch you, you’re okay… you’re okay.” 

Eventually, Dennis’ pacifying tone calmed Tom down and he stood in the middle of the room with his fingers entangled in his damp hair, a look of pure misery of his beautiful face. “I don’t deserve love,” he whimpered. 

Unsure of what to say, Booker stepped away from the bed. “Lie down and get some sleep,” he muttered wearily. 

Tom stood silently for several long moments before moving over to the bed and after pulling on a t-shirt and boxers, he curled himself into a ball on top of the mattress. Booker switched off the light, leaving only the quarter moon to shine a faint glow through the open window. As he pulled out a chair, he suddenly realized how bone-achingly exhausted he was and after removing his boots and jeans, he sat down, stuck his legs out in front of him and folding his arms across his chest, he closed his eyes. 

The constant hum of traffic lulled his fatigued mind and just as the veil of unconsciousness began to shroud his mind, a small voice spoke from across the room. “Dennis?” 

Jarred back to wakefulness, Booker jumped with a start. “What is it Tom?” he asked a little too tersely. 

When Tom did not reply, he let out a sigh and standing up, he walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Sorry,” he muttered, “tell me what’s wrong.” 

Tom’s watery eyes glistened in the pale moonlight. “I don’t want to be alone.” 

Confused by the statement, Booker shook his head slightly. “I don’t understand, I’m right here—” 

“I want you to hold me,” Tom whispered, “I need to feel… _connected_.” 

Booker’s heart hammered in his chest. It was the last thing he had expected Tom to say but now that the words were out in the open, he was terrified. Tom was obviously going through extreme mental and physical pain with his withdrawal and his emotions were unpredictable. He did not fancy waking in the middle of the night with his friend attacking him because he suddenly decided he did not want love or sympathy or whatever it was he thought was on offer. But as Booker stared into the shiny dark eyes gazing up at him, he knew he would do whatever Tom wanted because that was his curse… he loved him too damn much to refuse. 

“Scoot over,” he murmured softly and lying down, he wrapped his arms around Tom and held him close. Within minutes, the sound of deep breathing softly echoed throughout the room as both men dreamed impossible dreams of happiness and love. 


	12. Nobody Said It Was Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Eventually, Dennis’ pacifying tone calmed Tom down and he stood in the middle of the room with his fingers entangled in his damp hair, a look of pure misery of his beautiful face. “I don’t deserve love,” he whimpered._
> 
> _Unsure of what to say, Booker stepped away from the bed. “Lie down and get some sleep,” he muttered wearily._
> 
> _Tom stood silently for several long moments before moving over to the bed and after pulling on a t-shirt and boxers, he curled himself into a ball on top of the mattress. Booker switched off the light, leaving only the quarter moon to shine a faint glow through the open window. As he pulled out a chair, he suddenly realized how bone-achingly exhausted he was and after removing his boots and jeans, he sat down, stuck his legs out in front of him and folding his arms across his chest, he closed his eyes._
> 
> _The constant hum of traffic lulled his fatigued mind and just as the veil of unconsciousness began to shroud his mind, a small voice spoke from across the room. “Dennis?”_
> 
> _Jarred back to wakefulness, Booker jumped with a start. “What is it Tom?” he asked a little too tersely._
> 
> _When Tom did not reply, he let out a sigh and standing up he walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Sorry,” he muttered, “tell me what’s wrong.”_
> 
> _Tom’s watery eyes glistened in the pale moonlight. “I don’t want to be alone.”_
> 
> _Confused by the statement, Booker shook his head slightly. “I don’t understand, I’m right here—”_
> 
> _“I want you to hold me,” Tom whispered, “I need to feel… connected.”_
> 
> _Booker’s heart hammered in his chest. It was the last thing he had expected Tom to say but now that the words were out in the open, he was terrified. Tom was obviously going through extreme mental and physical pain with his withdrawal and his emotions were unpredictable. He did not fancy waking in the middle of the night with his friend attacking him because he suddenly decided he did not want love or sympathy or whatever it was he thought was on offer. But as Booker stared into the shiny dark eyes gazing up at him, he knew he would do whatever Tom wanted because that was his curse… he loved him too damn much to refuse._
> 
> _“Scoot over,” he murmured softly and lying down, he wrapped his arms around Tom and held him close. Within minutes, the sound of deep breathing softly echoed throughout the room as both men dreamed impossible dreams of happiness and love._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170027303/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Sunday October 15th 1989 (6.18 a.m.)** _

The sensation of warm breath tickling the flesh of his cheek pulled Booker from a deep slumber. When he saw Tom’s pale face hovering above him, he rapidly blinked the sleep from his eyes and cleared his throat nervously. “Tom? Is everything—”

“Am I a bad person?” Hanson asked in a barely audible voice.

“W-What?” Booker stammered as he wiped a hand over his bleary eyes. When he saw the genuine look of pain on Tom’s face, his expression softened. “Of course not. Why would you ask me that?”

Tom’s tortured eyes shone bright with tears and his lower lip started to tremble as he struggled to speak. “Because I don’t know if anybody could love me the way I am,” he whispered, “and I don’t know if I’m capable of feeling love for somebody else.”

Sitting up in bed, Booker gently cupped Tom’s face in his hand and stroked his cheek with his thumb. “Of _course_ someone could love you. Jesus Tom, the last seven months of your life don’t define you. You lost your way for a while, but you can find your way back if—”

“Do _you_ love me?” Tom interrupted in a soft voice.

Booker’s left eye twitched nervously and lowering his hand, he quickly hid his embarrassment. “Jesus Hanson, where’d you get an idea like that?” he snorted scornfully, and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he attempted to stand up so he could escape Tom’s scrutinizing gaze. But as he started to rise, a firm hand grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back down onto the mattress. Fearing that his secret was about to be revealed, his discomfort turned to anger and whipping his head around, he glared indignantly at Tom. “Do you mind?” he growled through clenched teeth. 

Unfazed by Booker’s anger, Tom tightened his grip and stared back serenely. “Just answer my question and I’ll let you go. Do… you… love me?”

Furious at Hanson’s obstinate refusal to let the matter drop, Booker yanked his arm away and standing up, he glowered down into the younger man’s pallid face. “No I don’t,” he spat vehemently. “I could never love a drug addicted whore.”

As the hateful words spilled from the dark-haired officer’s lips, Tom’s eyes widened in shock before slowly filling with tears. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he stood and faced the man he had come to think of as his friend. “Don’t you mean _murderous_ drug-addicted whore?” he uttered in an unsteady voice. “You might as well throw in an adjective to describe how you _really_ feel about me.”

Hearing the pain in Tom’s voice, Booker immediately regretted his hot-headedness and stepping forward, he laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped and he lowered his eyes to the floor. “You said it because it’s true,” he muttered miserably. “I _am_ a murderous drug addicted whore. Doug was my friend. I never should have run, I should have owned up to what I did and faced my punishment.”

A physical pain stabbed at Booker’s heart and wrapping his arms around Tom’s slight frame, he pulled him into a tight embrace. “You didn’t murder Doug,” he whispered against his ear. “You made a mistake and—”

Gently extricating himself from Booker’s arms, Tom took a step backwards and tilting his head on one side, he stared into the older man’s dark eyes. “You keep protecting me. Over and over you come to my defense and I want to know why. Why do you care so much about what happens to me?”

When Booker remained tight-lipped, Tom stepped forward and placing his hands on the young officer’s hips, he leaned in close, his eyes flashing with a sudden heated desire. “Is it ‘cause you wanna play with me?” he murmured seductively. “I owe you so much, so you know, I don’t mind, if you wanna get off.”

It was the moment Booker had waited a lifetime for, but Tom’s words made him feel sick to his stomach. The man he loved was offering himself up like a prostitute and he suddenly understood why he had uttered the hurtful words just moments earlier. No matter how he tried to spin it, Tom _was_ a drug-addicted whore and as much as he wanted him, he would not degrade himself by become one of his clients.

“No thanks,” he replied stiffly. “If I wanted to sleep with a prostitute I’d go to a brothel.”

This time, the harshness of Booker’s words evoked a burning anger deep inside Tom’s soul and he let out a cruel laugh. “Oh don’t bullshit me Dennis,” he spat. “You’ve been lusting after me ever since you laid eyes on me and I’m betting if I spread my legs for you right now, you’d shove your cock so far up my—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Booker’s fist slammed into his jaw and stumbling backwards, he fell to the floor. With a primordial yell, he jumped to his feet and charged head first at his attacker, knocking him to the ground. Fists rained down heavy punches as each man tried to gain the upper hand. They fought like bitter enemies, neither man holding back and within moments, their blood began to flow. But as their bodies crushed together, their fury suddenly transposed into a heated passion and in a simultaneous transition, angry fists became groping hands ripping at clothing in their desperate need to feel bare skin. Fingers clutched and scratched, drawing blood in their frantic need for contact. Their blood-smeared lips smashed together and hungry tongues sought to taste the other’s flowing juices. Wanting control, Booker rolled on top of Tom and began to grind his cotton-clad erection against the lithe body beneath him, each thrust bringing forth a fevered growl of dominance. Not to be outdone, Tom immediately bit down on Booker’s lip, eliciting a soft cry of pain from his lover. As they frantically humped and gyrated against each other’s bodies, Tom forcefully rolled Booker onto his side and reaching down, he released his cock and began to pump his fist over the erect shaft. 

For Booker, his dream was now a 3D, surround sound reality and his nerve endings jangled from the erotic pleasure. “Yes, yes, yes,” he panted against Tom’s throat. “Oh fuck… oh Tommy… oh _God!_ ” 

Without breaking pace, Tom pulled down his own boxers and grabbing Booker’s hand, he guided it towards his erection. “Touch me,” he moaned into Booker’s hair. “Touch me Dennis… touch me touch me touch me…”

Without hesitation, Booker’s fist worked over Tom’s shaft and eventually they fell into a synchronized tempo. Their previous frenzied fervor settled into a more rhythmic thrusting of mutual pleasure, their soft moans and grunts filling the room as they once again found each other’s mouths and their tongues danced a sensual tango of both lust and wanton need.

So lost in the pleasure of their coupling, Tom struggled to speak. “I’m close,” he gasped. “Oh God oh God oh God oh _GOD!_ ” His body shot forward and raking his fingernails painfully down Booker’s back, he spasmed violently as he exploded his orgasm over his lover’s fingers.

The unexpected pain fueled Booker’s arousal and his climax hit hard and fast. “ _TOMMEEE!_ ” he yelled and thrusting forward, he shuddered out his release. Brown eyes met brown eyes and placing his free hand behind Tom’s head, he pulled him into a slow kiss. A post-climactic calm washed over him and he savored the sensation of Tom’s full lips pressing against him. He took his time, tasting and exploring the warm inviting mouth, his fingers tenderly tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck, and when they eventually broke a part, he brushed his lover’s long bangs from his face and gave him a shy smile. “Shit.”

Tom smiled back nervously. He had no idea if what had just happened was a product of lust or love. Lust he understood, it was an emotion of intense desire within the body, but love was something different, love terrified him because he was convinced he was incapable of feeling it, knowing it or receiving it. 

Therefore, he decided to play it cool and nuzzling against Booker’s neck, he playfully nipped and sucked at the taught skin. “Yeah, it was fun,” he murmured softly.

A flicker of darkness passed over Booker’s eyes and pulling away, he tilted Tom’s chin so their eyes met. “Fun?” he asked in a strained voice. “Is that all it was to you?”

Jerking away from Booker’s embrace, Tom yanked up his boxers and stood up. “What do you want me to say?” he muttered in a flat voice. “It was just sex Booker. You wanted it, I wanted it, why are you making such a big deal of it?”

Humiliation burned at Booker’s cheeks and tucking away his softening cock, he glared up at Tom. “So what was all that _do you love me_ bullshit?” he muttered in a petulant voice. “I’m so fucking tired of the mixed signals you keep sending me.”

Embarrassed that he had revealed his insecurities, Tom kept up his indifferent attitude in an effort to mask his inner pain. “I’m withdrawing from drugs,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “It fucks with your emotions, don’t read too much into it.”

Getting up from the floor, Booker angrily struggled into his jeans. “Yeah?” he shot back sharply. “I guess being a junkie gives you all kinds of excuses huh?” When Tom remained silent, he pulled his ripped t-shirt over his head and throwing it angrily to the floor, he walked over to his friend and poked him in the chest. “Do you wanna know what your problem is Hanson? You’re a fuck up. You don’t take responsibility for _anything_ you do and you know what? I’m done. Have a nice life.”

Terrified of losing Booker forever, Tom grabbed his arm. “Dennis don’t go!” he implored in a desperate voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I know I’m fucked up, I _know_ it, but I can’t do this on my own, I _need_ you!”

Booker’s expression was unmoved and he angrily snatched his arm away. “ _Need_ but not love,” he stated flatly and rummaging through Tom’s meager belongings, he grabbed a t-shirt and pulled it over his head. The material clung too tightly to his muscular frame but he did not give a damn how ridiculous he looked, he wanted to get as far away from Hanson as he possibly could. Picking up his boots, he headed barefoot towards the door. “You’re a selfish prick Hanson, you don’t know the meaning of love and you never will because—”

A sharp pain exploded in the back of his head and with a groan, he crumpled unconscious to the floor. 

Tom stood over the lifeless body, his gun in his hand. He had not meant to strike Booker so hard with the butt of his Glock, but he needed it to look realistic. Squatting down, he checked his vitals and confident that Booker was in no danger, he stood back up. Apart from his shaky hands, his nerve rattling cravings for a hit were now nothing more than an irritating itch. It was a relief and he silently prayed that he was over the worst of his withdrawal and that it was not just his post-climactic tranquility masking the symptoms, because where he was going, he was not sure he would be able to cope with the pain on his own. 

Tossing his gun onto the bed, he quickly dressed and when Booker uttered a soft moan, he squatted back down and gently brushed his hair from his pale face. “I _want_ to know the meaning of love,” he whispered in a trembling voice, “and maybe this will prove to you I’m a better man than you think I am.”

At the sound of Tom’s voice, Booker’s eyelids fluttered slightly before he once again fell back into the blackness of unconsciousness. Tom continued to stroke at the dark hair for several more minutes before standing up and with one last glance at his lover, he picked up his gun and with a heavy heart, he took the first steps towards what was sure to be a hellish nightmare.


	13. Whispers and Moans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Terrified of losing Booker forever, Tom grabbed his arm. “Dennis don’t go!” he implored in a desperate voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I know I’m fucked up, I know it, but I can’t do this on my own, I need you!”_
> 
> _Booker’s expression was unmoved and he angrily snatched his arm away. “Need but not love,” he stated flatly and rummaging through Tom’s meager belongings, he grabbed a t-shirt and pulled it over his head. The material clung too tightly to his muscular frame but he did not give a damn how ridiculous he looked, he wanted to get as far away from Hanson as he possibly could. Picking up his boots, he headed barefoot towards the door. “You’re a selfish prick Hanson, you don’t know the meaning of love and you never will because—”_
> 
> _A sharp pain exploded in the back of his head and with a groan, he crumpled unconscious to the floor._
> 
> _Tom stood over the lifeless body, his gun in his hand. He had not meant to strike Booker so hard with the butt of his Glock, but he needed it to look realistic. Squatting down, he checked his vitals and confident that Booker was in no danger, he stood back up. Apart from his shaky hands, his nerve rattling cravings for a hit were now nothing more than an irritating itch. It was a relief and he silently prayed that he was over the worst of his withdrawal and that it was not just his post-climactic tranquility masking the symptoms, because where he was going, he was not sure he would be able to cope with the pain on his own._
> 
> _Tossing his gun onto the bed, he quickly dressed and when Booker uttered a soft moan, he squatted back down and gently brushed his hair from his pale face. “I want to know the meaning of love,” he whispered in a trembling voice, “and maybe this will prove to you I’m a better man than you think I am.”_
> 
> _At the sound of Tom’s voice, Booker’s eyelids fluttered slightly before he once again fell back into the blackness of unconsciousness. Tom continued to stroke at the dark hair for several more minutes before standing up and with one last glance at his lover, he picked up his gun and with a heavy heart, he took the first steps towards what was sure to be a hellish nightmare._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35809566822/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Sunday October 15th 1989 (10.08 a.m.)** _

Booker sat on the bed, gently dabbing at the bloody wound on the back of his head with the end of the crumpled bed sheet. He had woken up on the floor, the feeling of disorientation making his stomach lurch and it had taken several minutes until he felt steady enough to get to his feet. As he surveyed the empty room, he had tried to piece together what had happened and it did not take long for him to realize that Tom had knocked him out before fleeing. It was a painful insight into his own naïveté but now that the truth had been laid bare, he had no choice but to accept it. Every word out of Hanson’s mouth had been a lie, every gesture an act to gain sympathy and as much as it hurt, he had to be honest with himself; Tom was a master manipulator and he had played him big time.

However, an hour after waking up, he still had no idea what he should do. He could not erase the love in his heart with one cleansing swipe. What he felt for Tom was too deep, too ingrained to let go in one fell swoop. He needed time to grieve his loss before he could move on with his life. But even then, he knew there would be a piece of his soul forever devoted to the beautiful man who had stolen his heart. 

With a heavy sigh, he leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was facing a moral conundrum, should he protect Tom or chase him down and arrest him? It was the sixty-four thousand dollar question that had his throbbing head whirring in confusion and his heart aching with indecision. He was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. 

A loud crash pulled him from his thoughts and with a start, his eyes flew open to see Harry and two uniformed officers storming into the room. “Ioki?” he muttered in bewilderment. “How did you find me?”

Striding across the floor, Harry sat on the bed and surveyed the damage to the back of Booker’s head. “You need to go to the hospital,” he stated in a no nonsense voice.

As Harry’s fingers probed his aching skull, Booker winced in pain and pulled away. “I’m okay,” he muttered irritably, “it’s just a little knock to the head.”

Ioki’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “He seems to be making a habit of that.”

Unable to follow the gist of the conversation, Booker tried desperately to clear his muddled mind. “Who’s doing what now?” he mumbled.

“Hanson,” Harry replied grimly. “He knocks me out, kidnaps you for God knows what reason, then realizing he’s in too deep, he pistol whips you on the back of the head and runs. We’re lucky he slipped up, otherwise we’d have more victims on our hands. He’s getting dangerous.”

“Slipped up?” Booker queried in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

A smug smile played over Harry’s lips. “He tried to rob a convenience store, but he was sloppy and the local cops caught him red handed. Once he realized the game was up, he spilled the beans about who he was and the San Diego police called us. I caught the next plane here and he told me where to find you. Now we get to take him back to L.A. and watch the D.A. prosecute him for negligent homicide, drug dealing, assault and kidnapping. It’s gonna be like Christmas.”

As the meaning of Ioki’s words penetrated his addled brain, all of Booker’s reservations about helping Tom flew out the window. His eyes widened in horror and as he slowly shook his aching head from side to side, he struggled to voice a cohesive argument. “No… you’ve got it wrong… he didn’t… is he okay?”

Ioki snorted in amusement. “The sonofabitch is going through withdrawal. He’s in a pretty bad way… not that anyone cares.”

Booker reached out a hand and grabbed at Ioki’s sleeve. “You have to help him,” he pleaded in a desperate voice. “He’s suffering Harry, he needs a doctor.”

A deep frown creased Ioki’s brow and he gave Booker a quizzical look. “After everything he did to you, you’re _still_ protecting him,” he stated quietly. “I think _you’re_ the one who needs to see a doctor, that knock to your head has made you delusional.” 

Booker’s dark eyes filled with pain and ashamed by his show of emotion, he quickly lowered his gaze. “He used to be your friend,” he murmured softly. “Why do you hate him so much?”

Ioki’s fingers instinctively stroked the scar hidden beneath his shirt. “He used to be a lot of things,” he replied in a flat voice. “But now he’s just a criminal and the last time I checked, my job description was pretty clear; get the bad guys off the street.”

Booker opened his mouth to protest but he was too exhausted to argue and so he closed it again. The harsh reality of the situation was slowly sinking in and he felt impotent and worthless. Tom was facing multiple charges and despite his recent actions, Booker knew he could not sit back and watch the man he loved take the fall; he had no choice, he had to help him.

Lifting his gaze, he gave his partner a resolute look. “I want to see him.”

**

_**Sunday October 15th 1989 (11.19 a.m.)** _

A crippling stomach cramp had Tom doubled over in pain and crawling on his hands and knees to the stainless steel toilet in his cell, he threw up. His muscles continued to spasm as the cramps racked his weakened body and clutching the bowl for support, he emitted a low groan. Never had he experienced such an unrelenting sickness and he honestly did not know how much more he could take.

From the corner of the police cell, a low laugh penetrated through his pain and lifting his head, he glared at his cellmate. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

The man’s laughter froze on his lips and his ice blue eyes flashed dangerously. “What did you say, you little punk?” he growled.

Tom spat into the bowl and glowered back boldly. “You heard me… _asshole_.”

For a large man, Leroy ‘Tank’ Manning was extremely agile and within seconds, he was on his feet and had a beefy hand around Tom’s throat. “I dare you to say that again,” he muttered in a low, threatening voice and pushing Tom onto the floor, he slowly squeezed at the long column of his neck.

“Fu…ck you ass… _hole_ ,” Tom spluttered defiantly. 

Manning let out a yell of anger and picking Tom up, he threw him onto the narrow bunk. With a loud _crack_ , Tom's head ricocheted off the wall, knocking him into a daze. As he struggled to sit up, a pair of huge callused hands flipped him onto his stomach and held him in a vice-like grip. “Oh you’re in for a world of pain pretty boy,” Manning snarled and before Tom could react, his jeans and boxers were around his ankles.

“NO!” he yelled in terror and as his flight response kicked in, he began to violently struggle against Leroy’s iron grip. “LET ME GO! LET ME GO! _DON’T! DON’T!_ ”

“Lie still,” Leroy growled, and yanking down his zipper, he freed his enormous cock. He had been watching Tom for the past half hour, stroking himself to hardness in readiness and the time had come to claim his prize. Grabbing a handful of Hanson’s hair, he pushed the smaller man’s face forcefully into the mattress, immediately muffling his cries. 

“ _GEROFFME!”_ Tom screamed hysterically into the foul-smelling bedding but his words quickly transformed into a high-pitched shriek of pain when Leroy rammed his cock deep inside his unprepared anus.

A loud rasping wheeze sounded throughout the tiny cell as Leroy pounded his huge erection in and out of Tom’s rectum. Without the use of lubrication, his frantic thrusting tore through Tom’s muscles, slicking his cock with his victim’s blood but the sight only served to stimulate the big man’s sexual appetite and letting out an excited chuckle, he leaned in close, his rancid breath assaulting Tom’s nostrils. “That’s it pretty boy,” he whispered against Hanson’s cheek, “bleed for papa… I wanna hear you moan.”

With Leroy’s meaty hand pressing his face into the mattress, Tom fought to draw breath. A raw pain ripped through the lower half of his body and his insides blazed as the invasive cock ignited an unseen flame that continuously burned with every vicious thrust. His breath hitched in his throat and panic crippled his weakened body. He was going to die on a filthy mattress, smothered to death by the man who was violating him in the most degrading way imaginable… and no one would care because it was what he deserved. 

Blinding tears spilled from his terrified eyes but he was too frail to defend himself from the depravation of the rape and as his lungs screamed for life-giving oxygen, a vision of Booker flashed into his mind and he let out a strangled moan. “Denn- _isss_.”

A guttural yell sounded from the heavens and warm semen flooded his body, infecting him with a part of his abuser’s essence. Seconds later, Leroy’s hulking frame collapsed on top of him, pushing his face further into the mattress and with a final desperate gasp for air, the hand of darkness pulled him into a welcomed oblivion.

**

_**Sunday October 15th 1989 (1.36 p.m.)** _

Harry had insisted Booker go to the hospital and after an anxious wait, the dark haired officer was finally given the all clear on the proviso he take it easy for a couple of days. But for Booker, rest was not an option. He needed answers to the barrage of questions swirling in his mind and only one person could give them to him… Tom.

Arriving at the police station, a grim-faced officer gave them the news. “He’s in the hospital.”

Believing that Tom was getting medical treatment for his drug withdrawal, Booker let out a relieved sigh, but when he registered the man’s tense expression, his heart began to hammer in his chest. “Why?” he asked in a strained voice.

Unable to meet Booker’s questioning gaze, the officer shuffled some paperwork on his desk. “He was sexually assaulted,” he mumbled awkwardly.

Shaking his head slightly, Booker gave the man a disbelieving look. “He was _what?”_

A sense of foreboding settled over Ioki and he gently grasped his friend’s arm. “Dennis…” he murmured softly.

Flinching away from the contact, Booker pointed a finger at the frightened officer behind the counter and when he spoke, the pitch of his voice rose in agitation. “No! I want _him_ to repeat what he said!”

The young police officer’s eyes widened in fear. “Um… there was an incident in the cells and… well… prisoner Hanson was raped.”

Booker’s eyes burned like hot coals and throwing himself forward, he screamed into the startled cop’s face. “ _RAPED?_ HOW THE FUCK COULD HE GET _RAPED?”_

Ioki laid a warning hand on Dennis’ shoulder. “Booker you need to calm down.”

“CALM DOWN? CALM _DOWN?”_ Booker shrieked hysterically at Harry. “TOMMY WAS RAPED! HE WAS FUCKING RAPED! JESUS CHRIST I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! HOW THE _FUCK_ COULD THIS HAPPEN?”

A nervous tic twitched at the corner of the duty officer’s right eye. “The cells were full, he was doubling up with another prisoner and I guess we didn’t hear him yelling for help.”

“YOU GUESS?” Booker yelled in disbelief and with blazing eyes, he spun around and slammed his fist into the wall. “ _FUUUCK!”_

A dramatic silence followed his outburst, the deafening quietude eerily out of place in the busy precinct. But as the regular hustle and bustle returned to the station, Booker placed his bloody hand on the counter and with a self-restraint he did not know he possessed, he addressed the startled officer through clenched teeth. “What hospital?”

**

_**Sunday October 15th 1989 (1.48 p.m.)** _

When an ER doctor inserted a finger deep into his rectum, Tom stared blankly out in front of him, his expression an emotionless mask. He did not utter a sound as the digit probed his damaged body because he was dead inside and dead men did not speak. The young doctor reassured him in a kind, gentle voice, but his mind did not register the words because dead men did not hear and when a nurse stepped forward and punctured his skin with a needle, drawing his blood into a glass syringe, he did not flinch because dead men did not feel. Leroy Manning was his executioner, he had skillfully removed the last shred of his dignity, slicing it away as effectively as a guillotine’s blade and all that was left was a corpse, a lifeless effigy of his former self. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he was, for all intents and purposes, deceased.

So when a gentle hand brushed his sweaty hair from his pale face and a trembling voice spoke soft, comforting words, he remained locked in a physical and emotional vacuum, completely oblivious to the tears streaming down Booker’s face.


	14. Piece by Painful Piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Sunday October 15th 1989 (1.48 p.m.)_
> 
> _When an ER doctor inserted a finger deep into his rectum, Tom stared blankly out in front of him, his expression an emotionless mask. He did not utter a sound as the digit probed his damaged body because he was dead inside and dead men did not speak. The young doctor reassured him in a kind, gentle voice, but his mind did not register the words because dead men did not hear and when a nurse stepped forward and punctured his skin with a needle, drawing his blood into a glass syringe, he did not flinch because dead men did not feel. Leroy Manning was his executioner, he had skillfully removed the last shred of his dignity, slicing it away as effectively as a guillotine’s blade and all that was left was a corpse, a lifeless effigy of his former self. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he was, for all intents and purposes, deceased._
> 
> _So when a gentle hand brushed his sweaty hair from his pale face and a trembling voice spoke soft, comforting words, he remained locked in a physical and emotional vacuum, completely oblivious to the tears streaming down Booker’s face._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170026753/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday October 18th 1989 (5.05 p.m.)** _

The hum of the overhead light lulled Booker’s tired brain into a hypnotic trance and his eyelids grew steadily heavier. He had barely slept in the last three days and his mind felt as though a thick, heavy fog had enveloped it, making him sluggish and emotional. The pain of seeing Tom lying unresponsive on the narrow hospital bed; his eyes staring sightlessly in front of him, his body incapable of eating, drinking, speaking and most terrifyingly of all, feeling, had been difficult to witness. On the second day of Tom's stay, a nurse had inserted a drip into his arm so he would receive life-giving sustenance but there had been no flicker of acknowledgement that he had even felt the needle piercing his vein. Booker hoped it was because he was accustomed to the jab of a needle and not because he had suffered a breakdown, but deep down, he knew he was kidding himself. Since arriving at the hospital, Tom had not displayed any emotion, he did not react to stimulation through touch or sound, he just stared with a fixed gaze in front of him for hours on end until eventually, his mind shut down and he fell asleep. But even in slumber, he appeared cut off from the world. He did not move, snore or give any sign that he was alive; he just lay on his side until morning when his eyes would slowly open and he would begin his ritualistic staring all over again.

When a light hand rested on his shoulder, Booker jerked awake and opening his eyes, he saw Harry standing behind him. “How is he?” the young Asian officer asked in a soft voice.

Fatigue and worry were playing havoc with Booker’s emotions and his dark eyes conveyed his bad mood. “What do you care?” he snapped gruffly. 

Ioki pulled up a chair and sat down. “I _do_ care Dennis,” he replied adamantly. “I never wanted to see Hanson suffer like this, I just…” He lowered his eyes and stared morosely at the tiled floor. “I just wish we’d seen the signs _before_ he spiraled out of control.”

Leaning back in his chair, Booker rubbed his hands over his face and sighed wearily. “Yeah, Penhall’s death really rattled him. We should have—”

“I don’t mean that,” Ioki replied quietly. “I mean we should have seen the subtle signs after Amy died.”

Booker slowly lowered his hands and stared at Ioki in surprise. “Who’s Amy?”

It took Harry a moment to remember that Booker had joined the Jump Street program eight months after Amy’s murder and leaning forward, he nodded his head towards Tom. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this here.”

Intrigued by Ioki’s reluctance to speak in front of Tom, Booker got slowly to his feet and stretched out his aching muscles. “Let’s get some caffeine.”

Ioki hesitated for a moment before following Booker from the room. They found a vending machine and with coffees in hand, they entered the visitors’ room and sat down. Booker took a sip of his scalding brew and studied Harry’s face. His partner looked tired and he suddenly realized the young officer _was_ feeling the emotional impact of Tom’s rape just as heavily as he was. Tom had been his friend once upon a time and it was obvious that despite blaming him for his shooting, he was feeling the strain of the recent events. 

But for the first time in days, Hanson’s rape was not foremost in Booker’s mind and he asked the burning question. “So, who’s Amy?” 

A dark shadow passed over Harry’s face. “Amy was Hanson’s girlfriend,” he replied in a flat voice. “She was murdered by a gunman holding up a convenience store, Tom was there and… well… she died in his arms.”

Booker rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. “Shit,” he muttered. “How did Tom take it?”

Harry took a mouthful of coffee before answering. “That’s kind of the problem. He coped _too_ well. He barely showed a hint of emotion and I guess at the time we were all relieved. But looking back, I think he changed after the shooting. There were no real obvious signs that he was different but he just seemed a little off, you know?”

As he slowly processed the information, a disturbing thought entered Booker’s mind. “When did she die?” 

Ioki thought for a moment before answering. “February twenty-eighth last year. Why?”

Booker did the calculations in his head. “Jesus,” he murmured. “The anniversary of her death was only five days before Penhall was shot.”

Unaware of Tom’s experimentation with cocaine during that time, or the fact that he was high when he shot Doug, Ioki shrugged his shoulders. “So?”

It took a moment for Booker to gather his thoughts so he did not incriminate Tom. “Well… maybe he was preoccupied with thoughts of her death when he accidentally shot Penhall,” he suggested quietly.

Draining the last of his coffee, Harry stood up and threw the paper cup into the small trashcan. “Maybe,” he muttered in a flat voice, “but it doesn’t make him any less culpable. He was a cop, he should have had his mind on the job and however you try and spin it, he’s still responsible for Doug’s death.”

Booker knew he needed to be careful with his words and so he decided to let the matter drop so as not to implicate Tom any further. Getting to his feet, he crumpled his empty cup in his hand and tossed it into the trash. “Maybe,” he parroted Ioki. But as he headed towards the door, another light bulb moment flashed in his mind and turning back, he grabbed his friend by the arm. “Did you say Hanson’s girlfriend was murdered in a convenience store?”

Ioki seemed somewhat surprised by the question. “Yeah, what of it?”

Cocking his head on one side, Booker gave his partner a questioning look. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that Tom would hold up a convenience store when that’s the _exact_ setting where Amy was killed?” he asked in a rush.

“I suppose,” Ioki replied slowly. “But what does it prove?”

Excitement flashed in Booker’s dark eyes. “It proves there’s a motive behind Tom’s actions and things aren’t what they seem.”

None of what Booker said made any sense to Harry but he did not want to dampen his friend’s mood. It had been a painful experience to see his partner fall apart after Tom’s rape. Whilst he too found it difficult to see Hanson in such a vulnerable state, he did not fully understand Booker’s level of concern. But if believing Tom was not as bad as everyone else knew him to be gave his friend a measure of comfort, then he would not be the one to burst his bubble.

Laying a hand on Booker’s shoulder, he gave him a small smile. “Get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Booker nodded distractedly. He knew he was right. Something about the events leading up to Tom’s arrest did not add up and he was determined to find out what.

**

_**Wednesday October 18th 1989 (6.23 p.m.)** _

A loud rumble of thunder penetrated through the thick fog shrouding Tom’s mind and as though by magic, the protective veil lifted, leaving him once again both physically and emotionally aware. When a bolt of lightning split through the night sky, illuminating his room with a bluish flash, his eyes flew open and his heart began to pound against his ribs. His first awareness was an acute burning sensation rising deep from inside his body and as he became more consciously alert, the pain intensified. He was on fire, the pain steadily increasing with each passing second until he feared he would self-combust. He tried to sit up but his body had not yet woken from its emotional paralysis and he found himself incapable of movement. A raw panic filled his newly awakened mind and a terrified moan escaped through his parched lips… 

He was dying all over again.

Within moments, a dark shadowy figure came into his line of vision. He desperately tried to shrink away, but his uncooperative limbs refused to budge, leaving him immobile. When a hand rested on top of his head, his breathing became raspy, the air catching painfully in his throat and as his anxiety heightened, tears spilled from his eyes and he started to sob. “Don’t… don’t... don’t…”

But instead of the anticipated pain, tender fingers lightly stroked his hair and a faint voice sounded from the Elysian Fields of his mind. “Shh, you’re okay Tommy, everything’s going to be okay.”

**

**Wednesday October 18th 1989 (10.12 p.m.)**

A heavy rain battered against the windowpane of Booker’s apartment and picking up the TV’s remote, he instinctively increased the volume. A baby-faced Neil Patrick Harris filled the small screen but he had no idea what medical drama _Doogie_ was facing because his mind remained firmly fixed on Tom. It had been a relief to see him finally becoming aware of his surroundings but the terror in his voice suggested that he was still suffering from a deep emotional trauma and Booker knew he would need to tread warily. Although he was desperate to quiz him about the hours leading up to his arrest, he did not want to cause him any unnecessary distress. His Tommy still had a lot of healing to do.

Memories of his conversation with Ioki filtered into his mind and he could not help but wonder what kind of woman Amy had been. Had Tom been madly in love with her, enjoying the magic and excitement of a new affair filled with fun and laughter or was it a more serious, long-term relationship? However, for Booker, the most probing question was why had Hanson bottled up his feelings after his lover’s death? He knew Tom was fiercely private when it came to personal matters but he would have expected him to open up to Penhall about his grief. It pained him to think that after the horror he had experienced at the hands of Leroy Manning, he would not have his best friend by his side, helping him through the emotional pain. However, he did hope that Hanson would feel comfortable enough to speak to him about his ordeal, if only in a general way. He did not want him feeling isolated and alone because no matter what evils the ex-cop had committed, he deserved to feel loved.

His thoughts suddenly returned to the night when Tom had stood in the middle of the room screaming, _“I DON’T DESERVE LOVE, I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T…”_ At the time, he had believed Tom’s unhinged emotions were a product of his drug withdrawal, but now he was not so sure. So much of what had happened over the last week had him feeling confused, including the morning Tom had knocked him out cold. Thoughts of their frenzied sexual encounter had the blood flowing to his genitals and his heart rate increasing. It had been an animalistic coupling, a desperate need to explore each other’s bodies through touch and taste, and neither man had shown restraint. Their mutual hunger had been evident throughout but for Booker, it had been more than just a need to fulfill his sexual appetite. Although he had dreamed about Tom for months, imagining him in his bed as he trailed his tongue down his naked, quivering body, tasting, sucking, licking, teasing and eventually bringing him to orgasm with just the power of his mouth, it was also old-fashioned love that had his cock swelling. However, his strong emotional feelings were not something he readily admitted to those who knew him and he only revealed his softer side to his family and lovers. He had a reputation to uphold, he was the leather-clad, sarcastic, over-confident cop who enjoyed a good joke, especially at the expense of his colleagues and most would consider him incapable of real love. But the truth was a slightly different story. Whilst the _real_ Dennis Booker _was_ all those things, he was also extremely passionate and as much as he hated to admit it to himself, he was a hopeless romantic. When he fell in love, he fell hard and Tom had not only knocked him off his feet, he had flattened him with a bulldozer. It was not just the physical need for release that had fueled his desires that day; it had been the belief that it was the start of something beautiful, a new beginning with the man he idolized. But when Tom’s casual words had cruelly snatched his dream away, his world had fallen apart. The ex-cop had been in it for the sex, nothing more. Tom had an itch that had needed scratching and he had been a convenient partner, except… there had been a moment when their eyes locked, and he was certain he had seen a flash of… devotion? Love? Affection? He was not exactly sure what it was but it was an emotion deeper than lust. However, what shone out of Tom’s dark eyes that morning had only lasted a fraction of a second before the shutters went down and he had been left to wonder if he would ever know the truth about his true feelings.

A deep seated weariness suddenly washed over him and unwilling to spend another night with his thoughts going round and round on an emotional merry-go-round, he switched off the TV and walked into his bedroom. With Tom now consciously aware, he needed to be psychologically fit to help him through the devastating aftermath of his assault. 

But little did he know, his life was about to get far more complicated than he could ever have imagined.


	15. 'Cause the Truth Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is heavy on the dialogue, I hope it doesn't disappoint.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Wednesday October 18th 1989 (10.12 p.m.)_
> 
> _A heavy rain battered against the windowpane of Booker’s apartment and picking up the TV’s remote, he instinctively increased the volume. A baby-faced Neil Patrick Harris filled the small screen but he had no idea what medical drama Doogie was facing because his mind remained firmly fixed on Tom. It had been a relief to see him finally becoming aware of his surroundings but the terror in his voice suggested that he was still suffering from a deep emotional trauma and Booker knew he would need to tread warily. Although he was desperate to quiz him about the hours leading up to his arrest, he did not want to cause him any unnecessary distress. His Tommy still had a lot of healing to do._
> 
> _Memories of his conversation with Ioki filtered into his mind and he could not help but wonder what kind of woman Amy had been. Had Tom been madly in love with her, enjoying the magic and excitement of a new affair filled with fun and laughter or was it a more serious, long-term relationship? However, for Booker, the most probing question was why had Hanson bottled up his feelings after his lover’s death? He knew Tom was fiercely private when it came to personal matters but he would have expected him to open up to Penhall about his grief. It pained him to think that after the horror he had experienced at the hands of Leroy Manning, he would not have his best friend by his side, helping him through the emotional pain. However, he did hope that Hanson would feel comfortable enough to speak to him about his ordeal, if only in a general way. He did not want him feeling isolated and alone because no matter what evils the ex-cop had committed, he deserved to feel loved._
> 
> _His thoughts suddenly returned to the night when Tom had stood in the middle of the room screaming, “I DON’T DESERVE LOVE, I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T…” At the time, he had believed Tom’s unhinged emotions were a product of his drug withdrawal, but now he was not so sure. So much of what had happened over the last week had him feeling confused, including the morning Tom had knocked him out cold. Thoughts of their frenzied sexual encounter had the blood flowing to his genitals and his heart rate increasing. It had been an animalistic coupling, a desperate need to explore each other’s bodies through touch and taste, and neither man had shown restraint. Their mutual hunger had been evident throughout but for Booker, it had been more than just a need to fulfill his sexual appetite. Although he had dreamed about Tom for months, imagining him in his bed as he trailed his tongue down his naked, quivering body, tasting, sucking, licking, teasing and eventually bringing him to orgasm with just the power of his mouth, it was also old-fashioned love that had his cock swelling. However, his strong emotional feelings were not something he readily admitted to those who knew him and he only revealed his softer side to his family and lovers. He had a reputation to uphold, he was the leather-clad, sarcastic, over-confident cop who enjoyed a good joke, especially at the expense of his colleagues and most would consider him incapable of real love. But the truth was a slightly different story. Whilst the real Dennis Booker was all those things, he was also extremely passionate and as much as he hated to admit it to himself, he was a hopeless romantic. When he fell in love, he fell hard and Tom had not only knocked him off his feet, he had flattened him with a bulldozer. It was not just the physical need for release that had fueled his desires that day; it had been the belief that it was the start of something beautiful, a new beginning with the man he idolized. But when Tom’s casual words had cruelly snatched his dream away, his world had fallen apart. The ex-cop had been in it for the sex, nothing more. Tom had an itch that had needed scratching and he had been a convenient partner, except… there had been a moment when their eyes locked, and he was certain he had seen a flash of… devotion? Love? Affection? He was not exactly sure what it was but it was an emotion deeper than lust. However, what shone out of Tom’s dark eyes that morning had only lasted a fraction of a second before the shutters went down and he had been left to wonder if he would ever know the truth about his true feelings._
> 
> _A deep seeded weariness suddenly washed over him and unwilling to spend another night with his thoughts going round and round on an emotional merry-go-round, he switched off the TV and walked into his bedroom. With Tom now consciously aware, he needed to be psychologically fit to help him through the devastating aftermath of his assault._
> 
> _But little did he know, his life was about to get far more complicated than he could ever have imagined._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170026673/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Thursday October 19th 1989 (7.50 a.m.)** _

All that remained of the previous night’s storm were bluish-gray Altostratus clouds that blanketed the sky. Sunlight penetrated through the wispy white layer, creating dancing rainbows on the glistening sidewalks as people hurried to work. The traffic was slow at that time of the morning and for Booker, it was a frustratingly long drive to the hospital. However, the extended journey allowed him time to think about what he would say to Tom when they finally came face to face for the first time since his rape. _Are you okay?_ was a ridiculously clichéd question to ask given the circumstances because it was blindingly obvious that Tom was _anything_ but okay and yet _how are you?_ seemed just as offensive and inappropriate. The last thing he wanted to do was cause Tom any undue emotional stress and as he slowly drove through the peak hour traffic, he absently chewed on his lower lip, his face a mask of absolute concentration. However, despite his best efforts, by the time he arrived at the hospital, the best greeting he had come up with was a lame _hey_.

He parked the patrol car he had borrowed in the underground lot and walked up the stairs into the hospital’s main foyer. It was an hour before official visiting hours, so he showed his badge at reception and rode the lift up to the third floor. His heart hammered rapidly in his chest as he approached Tom’s private room and he paused a few feet from the door so he could gather his wits. Several long moments passed before he was confident he had his emotions in check and with a deep, calming breath, he strode through the door wearing a fake smile. “Hey…”

But when his eyes locked with Tom’s, the rest of his feeble greeting froze on his lips. “Oh Tommy,” he murmured, the pain and heartache evident in his voice, and moving forward, he placed a gentle hand on his friend's arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears welled in Tom’s dark eyes but he did not break down, instead, he forced a watery smile. “I’m okay,” he croaked. “I deserved it and it’s not like I’ve never had a man’s coc—”

“Don’t,” Booker spluttered, his eyes opening wide in horror. “You _didn’t_ deserve it and it’s not the same thing. It’s _never_ the same thing Tom, _never_.”

“Isn’t it?” Tom whispered, his haunted eyes appearing huge in his pale, drawn face. “Because it _feels_ like the same thing to me.”

Confused by Hanson’s reasoning, Booker gave his friend a worried look. “Tommy, you _do_ remember what happened in the cells don’t you?”

Another weak smile played over Tom’s cracked lips. “I was raped,” he stated matter-of-factly, “by some overweight piece of shit named Manning.”

“That’s right,” Booker replied slowly, “and that’s not the same as having sex for…” He paused for a moment, unsure if using the word _pleasure_ was the right way to describe Tom’s sexual liaisons. The word _money_ then popped into his mind but that seemed even more insulting and so he left his sentence hanging in the hope that Tom would know what he meant without him actually having to say it.

Closing his eyes, Tom let out a weary sigh. “It doesn’t matter how you try and spin it Dennis, either way, I feel like a whore. Manning fucked me just like all those other men did and the only difference is, he didn’t wear a rubber.”

The starkness of Tom’s words cut to the very core of Booker’s being and he struggled to maintain his composure. There was a very real chance Tom could have contracted an STD or worse, and a cold shiver of fear ran down his spine. But the harsh reality was too much for him to deal with at that moment and pulling up a chair, he sat down at Hanson’s bedside and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he started but when his gaze settled on the handcuff attached to his friend’s wrist, his eyebrows shot up in surprise and he stopped mid sentence before exclaiming, “What the hell?”

Tom opened his eyes and following Booker’s line of vision, he held up his tethered wrist and jangled the cuff against the metal bedrail. “I had a visit from Ioki late last night,” he stated in a soft voice. “I guess he thinks I’m a flight risk.”

“Sonofabitch,” Booker muttered under his breath, although in his heart he knew if Tom were any other prisoner, he would have done the same thing.

Seemingly unperturbed by his confinement, Tom shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter, not anymore.”

Unsure how to respond, Booker remained quiet and an awkward silence hung in the air until Tom spoke again. “How’s your head?”

Booker’s fingers instinctively went to the wound on the back of his head and he probed the large gash that lay hidden beneath his dark hair. “I’ll live,” he replied flatly, “but it was quite a bump you gave me.”

Sensing a hint of anger in Booker’s voice, Tom gave him a quizzical look. “I’m sorry but you know I had to make it look convincing, otherwise there was no point.”

Booker returned a questioning gaze. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked gruffly.

Tom’s eyes widened in surprise and reaching out his untethered arm, he placed a hand on Booker’s knee. “You _know_ I only hit you so the cops would believe I kidnapped you… _right?"_

At Tom’s words, Booker’s expression hardened and he pushed his friend‘s hand from his knee. “Don’t bullshit me Hanson, you pistol-whipped me and knocked me out. There’s no excuse for what you did.”

Exhaling in frustration, Tom tried once again to explain his reasons. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. If anyone ever found out you _willingly_ came on the run with me, you would have lost your job and been charged with aiding and abetting a criminal. I gave you an out.”

Doubt clouded Booker’s eyes and he shook his head slowly from side to side. “I don’t believe you,” he replied in a cold voice. “You had nothing to gain by doing that.”

Hanson lowered his eyes and his bottom lip pushed into a soft pout. “I didn’t do it for me, I did it for you.”

Although desperate to believe, Booker was not convinced. “I’m sorry Tommy but—” 

Tom’s body shot forward in the bed. “YOU SAID I WAS A SELFISH PRICK AND THAT I DIDN’T KNOW THE MEANING OF LOVE!” he screamed unexpectedly, his dark eyes flashing with emotion. “I WANTED TO PROVE TO YOU THAT I _COULD_ LOVE… DON’T YOU SEE? I DID IT FOR YOU! I DID IT _ALL_ FOR _YOU!"_

A slow realization dawned on Booker and his voice trembled with emotion. “The convenience store robbery, did you _plan_ it so you’d get caught?”

Unable to meet Booker’s incredulous look, Tom’s eyes remained focused on the blanket covering his thin body. “I needed to get arrested so I could tell the cops where you were,” he muttered moodily. “I needed to make sure you were okay.”

Getting slowly to his feet, Booker sat on the edge of the bed and gazed at Tom’s bowed head. “You could have just made a phone call,” he stated softly.

A single tear spilled from Tom’s eye and landed on the white cotton blanket. “No I couldn’t,” he whispered. “I needed…” 

His voice trailed off and his eyes remained stubbornly downcast until Booker’s gentle voice cut through the silence. “Jesus Christ, I get it now, you needed absolution for Amy’s death.”

Tom lifted his head and gazed at his friend with two wide, disbelieving eyes. “H-How do you know about Amy?”

A small conspiratorial smile graced Booker’s lips. “I’m a cop, I know everything.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped and he fell back against the pillows with a sigh. “Fucking Harry.”

Booker nodded. “He told me last night and I realized there was something weird about you holding up the convenience store but I only just put two and two together… I’m right aren’t I, you wanted your road to redemption to begin in the same setting that Amy’s life ended?”

A startled look animated Tom’s pale face before his lips twitched into a small smile. “Has anyone ever told you you’re scarily insightful?”

“All the time,” Booker replied with a chuckle before his expression once again became serious. “But Tom, you can’t take the rap, you didn’t kidnap me. It’s a lie.”

“My whole life’s a lie,” Tom murmured softly, his eyes brimming with sadness. “One more isn’t going to make any difference, not now. Even if the negligent homicide charge doesn’t stick, I’m still going to prison for dealing drugs. There’s no saving me, but you have your whole life ahead of you so why ruin it? It’s the perfect plan.”

“No it’s not,” Booker stated forcefully. “I won’t have you taking the blame for something you didn’t do.”

Tom’s lip pushed into a petulant pout. “Why won’t you let me do this? I want to prove to you that I’m not a bad person and that I’m worthy of your lov—”

So caught up in the heat of the argument, Booker did not hear Tom’s near slip of the tongue. “I already _know_ you’re not a bad person!” he exclaimed loudly. “Jesus Christ Tom, this is bullshit and I won’t be a part of it!”

When Tom continued to stare back sullenly, Booker tried a different tact. “Do you feel responsible for Amy’s death? Is that why you started taking drugs?”

Too emotionally drained and physically sore to deal with Booker’s thinly veiled attempt to psychoanalyze him, Tom quickly shut him out by closing his eyes. “I’m through talking,” he muttered moodily. “I’m tired.”

Although not willing to let the matter drop, Booker did not want to push too hard whilst Tom was still so mentally vulnerable. “Okay, I’ll come back later, but we’re not through talking about this.”

Tom’s eyes remained obstinately closed and with one final glance at his friend, Booker turned and left the room.

**

_**Thursday October 19th 1989 (2.15 p.m.)** _

Lifting the pint glass to his lips, Booker drank a large measure of the amber fluid before he replied to Harry’s question. “Do I think he’s well enough to travel? No I don’t.”

A heavy scowl creased Ioki’s brow and he slammed his drink down on the table. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he shot back angrily. “For fuck’s sake Booker, when are you going to stop protecting him?”

An uncomfortable silence hung between the two men but eventually, Booker spoke again. “You asked for my opinion and I gave it. He’s been through hell Harry, can’t you cut him a little slack?” 

Ioki’s expression softened somewhat and he let out a sigh. “I _know_ he has and trust me Dennis, I feel bad about what he’s going through. But we have a responsibility to get him back to L.A. and I figure the sooner we do it, the better for all of us.”

Booker glared back at his partner. “Better for everyone except Tom,” he muttered morosely. “He’s facing years in prison.”

It was not easy for Ioki to keep his temper but for Booker’s sake, he tried, and placing his trembling hands flat on the table, he withheld the exasperated sigh that threatened to expel from his pursed lips. “We’re cops, our job is to bring in the bad guys and Hanson’s a bad guy whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.”

Tom’s words echoed in Booker’s mind, _“Why won’t you let me do this? I want to prove to you that I’m not a bad person,”_ and his stomach churned with indecision. He could give his friend the sense of atonement he was so desperately seeking but in doing so, he would add years to his prison sentence, or he could own up to his own lapse in judgment and risk losing his job. There was a third option but as soon as the thought entered his mind, he quickly pushed the idea away. He had already made one monumental transgression; there was no point in adding fuel to an already blazing fire.

Pushing his empty glass across the table, he gave Harry what he hoped was a beseeching look. “Give him another twenty-four hours, that’s all I ask.”

Harry considered Booker’s request for several moments before giving his answer. “Twenty-four hours,” he agreed quietly, “but not a minute more.”

Booker’s eyes shone with appreciation and a small smile played over his lips. “Thanks.”


	16. A Slow Dawning of Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Thursday October 19th 1989 (2.15 p.m.)_
> 
> _Lifting the pint glass to his lips, Booker drank a large measure of the amber fluid before he replied to Harry’s question. “Do I think he’s well enough to travel? No I don’t.”_
> 
> _A heavy scowl creased Ioki’s brow and he slammed his drink down on the table. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he shot back angrily. “For fuck’s sake Booker, when are you going to stop protecting him?”_
> 
> _An uncomfortable silence hung between the two men but eventually, Booker spoke again. “You asked for my opinion and I gave it. He’s been through hell Harry, can’t you cut him a little slack?”_
> 
> _Ioki’s expression softened somewhat and he let out a sigh. “I know he has and trust me Dennis, I feel bad about what he’s going through. But we have a responsibility to get him back to L.A. and I figure the sooner we do it, the better for all of us.”_
> 
> _Booker glared back at his partner. “Better for everyone except Tom,” he muttered morosely. “He’s facing years in prison.”_
> 
> _It was not easy for Ioki to keep his temper but for Booker’s sake, he tried, and placing his trembling hands flat on the table, he withheld the exasperated sigh that threatened to expel from his pursed lips. “We’re cops, our job is to bring in the bad guys and Hanson’s a bad guy whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.”_
> 
> _Tom’s words echoed in Booker’s mind, “Why won’t you let me do this? I want to prove to you that I’m not a bad person,” and his stomach churned with indecision. He could give his friend the sense of atonement he was so desperately seeking but in doing so, he would add years to his prison sentence, or he could own up to his own lapse in judgment and risk losing his job. There was a third option but as soon as the thought entered his mind, he quickly pushed the idea away. He had already made one monumental transgression; there was no point in adding fuel to an already blazing fire._
> 
> _Pushing his empty glass across the table, he gave Harry what he hoped was a beseeching look. “Give him another twenty-four hours, that’s all I ask.”_
> 
> _Harry considered Booker’s request for several moments before giving his answer. “Twenty-four hours,” he agreed quietly, “but not a minute more.”_
> 
> _Booker’s eyes shone with appreciation and a small smile played over his lips. “Thanks.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170026493/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Thursday October 19th 1989 (2.39 p.m.)** _

Tears of shame spilled from Tom’s dark eyes, the salty droplets mixing with the warm water cascading over his naked body. Now that his mind was free of the effects of the drugs, he had time to reflect on the past seven months of his life and the true horror of his existence overwhelmed his senses, sending hot bile flooding into his throat. With a soft cry, he clutched his stomach and doubling over, he spewed up the watery liquid onto the shower floor. His empty stomach cramped from the effort and placing a trembling hand against the tiled wall, he attempted to calm himself. As the pain in his gut slowly eased, he tipped his head back and allowed the soothing stream of water to wash away his tears. He needed to man up and accept what he had done, both to himself and to those he loved. Penhall was dead, Harry had suffered a debilitating injury and Booker…

Lowering his head, he gazed down at the mass of greenish-yellow bruises covering his torso, each one the result of the vicious blows Booker had rained down on his body. He trailed his fingertips lightly over each contusion, testing the tenderness of each spot before moving onto the next. When his finger probed a particularly large bruise covering his ribs, he flinched in pain and drew his hand away. Each discoloration was an allegory of Booker’s rage and yet it was that unleashing of fury that had ultimately led to their passionate fornication. During their coupling, he had believed it to be nothing more than lust and a desperate need to get off, but when the post-climactic calm had washed over his tired, aching body, his eyes had locked with Booker’s and he had felt a connection. But it had been so long since he had felt _anything_ other than emptiness inside his soul and the rawness of the emotion had terrified him. He knew Booker had felt it too, but he could not cope with the complexities of what that meant and so he had played it cool. However, he knew the pain he had witnessed in Booker’s eyes when he had brashly told him it was _just sex_ would stay with him forever and he now understood it had been that moment that was the catalyst for what had happened next. A sudden panic had consumed him and he knew he could not continue to live a life knowing that Booker thought he was incapable of love. It had been an unexpected revelation and he had no idea why that particular rationale had suddenly been so important to him… until now. Now he knew and the reality of it was more than a little unnerving.

He was falling in love with Booker.

A loud knock on the bathroom door pulled him back to the present with a start and wiping the water from his face, he called out to the hospital security guard outside the door. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Turning off the faucets, he stepped out of the small cubicle and gingerly rubbed himself dry. The towel came away bloody and grasping hold of the hand basin, he screwed his eyes closed and slowly counted to ten. There was no point in crying, what was done was done and being raped was not the worst thing that had happened to him; the worst thing was taking the life of his friend. 

With a heavy sigh, he pulled on a clean hospital gown and exited the private bathroom. The security guard immediately placed a set of handcuffs on his wrist and led him over to the bed. Once he was comfortable, the young officer snapped the other cuff around the bedrail and stepped back. “Sorry,” he said with a slow southern drawl, “but the cops were pretty insistent you remain cuffed at all times except in the bathroom.”

Tom gave the handsome young man an understanding smile. “Not your fault,” he murmured as he studied the guard’s face. He had been doing that a lot over the last few hours, scrutinizing the male nurses, orderlies and hospital staff to see if he felt an attraction towards any of them. But there had not been even a glimmer of desire within him and the realization only added to his confusion. He had readily given his body over to other men but that had been a means to an end; he wanted drugs and Drexl supplied them as long as he gave his _clients_ what they wanted. In the beginning, he had thought he would not enjoy the sex, but he had been pleasantly surprised. However, it had only been a physical stimulation, not an emotional one that had sent nerve-jangling orgasms shooting through his body time after time. But now… now there was Booker and suddenly, it was a whole new ballgame. There was a strange affinity between the two of them that he did not understand. He was attracted to the dark haired officer in a way that made his stomach flip-flop with longing and his heart flutter with desire whenever he thought about him. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time but he knew he could not give into his feelings. He had almost slipped up and told Booker how he felt but to do so would only end in tragedy. Booker deserved better, he deserved a future with a partner who could be there for him, not a whore who was facing a lengthy prison term.

As hot tears once again blurred his vision, he turned on his side and closed his eyes. Whether he liked it or not, he had to face up to the harsh reality that he was destined never to know the love of Dennis Booker.

**

_**Thursday October 19th 1989 (3.28 p.m.)** _

When a gentle hand rested on the top of his head, Tom’s eyes slowly opened and rolling over, he gazed up into Booker’s dark, compassionate eyes. “Hey,” he mumbled sleepily, “what are you doing here?”

Dennis’ lips curled at the edges as he took in Tom’s disheveled appearance. His hair stuck up in soft peaks around his skull, the tousled look giving him an almost childlike appearance and for Dennis, the sight was both adorable and heartbreaking in its normality. But what Tom had been through was anything but normal and his heart plummeted at the news he was about to give. Moving away from the bed, he closed the door to give them some privacy before returning to Tom’s bedside. “We need to talk.”

Struggling to a sitting position, Tom rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. “Sounds ominous. What’s up?”

Booker hesitated for a moment before sitting down on the edge of the mattress. “We’re taking you back to L.A. tomorrow,” he informed his friend in a soft voice. “The doctor says you’re well enough to travel so…”

A flicker of fear flashed in Tom’s eyes before the look was replaced by a calm acceptance. “Okay.”

Booker’s brow creased into a deep frown. “Okay?” he parroted. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” Tom snapped back, the timbre of his voice rising slightly in agitation. “There’s no getting around it Booker, I’m going to be charged with negligent homicide, drug dealing, assault and kidnapping. It doesn’t matter if I go back tomorrow or a month from now, the outcome’s going to be the same; I’m going to prison.”

“So you’re just giving up, you’re not even going to _try_ and fight?” Booker shot back angrily. “What the fuck is wrong with you? This is your _life_ Tommy… your fucking _life!”_

A petulant pout formed on Tom’s lips. “There’s nothing _to_ fight,” he muttered moodily. “I’m guilty on all charges, end of story.”

Booker glared back defiantly. “No you’re not. I assaulted Harry and there was no kidnapping.”

Tom narrowed his eyes and stared angrily back at his friend. “Don’t,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I’ve already told you, I _want_ to take the fall, there’s no point in both of us—”

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE, SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Booker yelled, his eyes blazing with fury and getting to his feet, he began to pace the floor in agitation. “This isn’t a game Hanson, this is real… fucking… _life!_ I don’t give two fucks if you need to atone or prove you’re worthy of love or whatever hang-up is keeping you awake at night. I _WON’T_ let you take the rap for me!”

A heavy silence hung in the air and Tom suddenly felt the full weight of all his pent up emotions bearing down on him. Unwanted tears filled his dark eyes and his lower lip started to tremble. “Why won’t you let me do this?” he whispered in a fragile voice. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

The genuine misery expressed on Tom’s face calmed Booker’s anger and sitting back down on the bed, he took his hand and gave the fingers a gentle squeeze. “Because I couldn’t live with myself,” he explained quietly. “You need to do what’s right for you and so do I. I made a mistake and I need to face the consequences.”

“You’ll lose your job,” Tom stated in a flat voice, “and you’ll never forgive me for dragging you into this.”

“Does that bother you?” Booker asked expectantly. Suddenly, it seemed very important that he know _exactly_ how Tom felt about him. Not that it would change his mind one way or the other but he needed to know if the moment of passion they had shared was real or just a need for release.

Tom pulled his hand away from Booker’s grasp and began picking nervously at the cotton blanket covering his legs. “We’ve been through a lot together,” he mumbled. “I don’t want you to hate me for ruining your life.”

Unwilling to let the matter drop, Booker pushed a little harder. “Why?” he asked softly. “Why do you care how I feel about you?”

But Tom was not about to admit his true feelings and closing his eyes, he turned away from Booker’s scrutinizing gaze. “Because there’s enough hate in the world already.”

**

_**Thursday October 19th 1989 (6.48 p.m.)** _

Harry glared disbelievingly at Booker from across the small table in his hotel room. “ _What_ did you just say?”

Booker chewed nervously on his lower lip for several seconds before quietly repeating his statement. “Hanson didn’t hit you over the head with his gun, I did.”

The muscles flexed in Ioki’s jaw as he continuously clenched and unclenched his teeth, his aggravated expression forming a dark mask on his normally friendly, open face. “ _You_ assaulted me?” he clarified in a voice desperate not to believe. “I’m your partner, I trust you with my _life_. Why the hell would you do that?”

It was the sixty-four thousand dollar question but for Booker, the answer was clear. However, the dilemma was whether to admit to Harry his feelings for Hanson or just make up a lie to spare himself the humiliation. Ioki did not know he was bisexual and even though he was certain the young officer was not homophobic, he did not want his sexuality getting in the way of their working relationship. He loved Harry like a brother, they had worked side by side for nearly eight months and he too trusted him with his life. But as he gazed into his friend’s wounded eyes, he knew in his heart that he had to tell the truth; there had been enough lies told already.

Clearing his throat, he gave his partner a sheepish look. “I… um… I did it because… _shit!”_ He paused for a long moment before finishing his statement in a rush of words. “I did it because I’m in love with Hanson.”

Ioki’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “You… love… _Hanson?”_ he repeated slowly, his voice giving emphasis to the name of the man he struggled to relate to as ever having been his friend. 

Booker’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of red but his hands curled into tight fists in defense of his pride. “Yeah I do,” he snapped back. “Do you have a problem with that?”

As though in a daze, Ioki stood up and walking over to the bed, he sat down again. “You _love_ Hanson,” he restated in a soft voice, as if repeating the words would help him to comprehend the information. He sat staring off into space for several moments before returning his gaze to Booker’s defiant face. “Jesus,” he muttered sympathetically, “the last few months must have been hell for you.”

Booker let out the breath he had been holding and managed a faint smile. “That’s the understatement of the year,” he quipped lamely. But when Harry did not respond, he walked over and sat next to him on the bed. “You’re not freaked out?”

Ioki looked up, his face a picture of understanding. “About you being in love with Hanson? No not really… I mean, who wouldn’t fall in love with him? He’s gorgeous, right?”

A genuine smile graced Booker’s lips and his expression relaxed. “Asshole,” he chided with a chuckle. “So we’re good?”

A dark cloud passed over Ioki’s face. “I’m okay with your sexuality Booker but I’m having a little trouble understanding why you felt the need to pistol-whip me and take off with a wanted fugitive.”

Embarrassment and shame flushed Booker’s cheeks an even deeper shade of scarlet. “I’m sorry,” he muttered remorsefully. “I saw the gun in your hand and I panicked. I was terrified you were going to shoot him.”

Ioki’s head nodded slowly up and down as he digested Booker’s words. “Okay, I get that. But why did you go with him?”

Booker’s lip twitched nervously. “Because I wanted to save him,” he admitted softly. “I wanted the old Tommy back.”

Harry remained lost in thought for several minutes before returning his gaze to his friend. “If I don’t press charges, you won’t be charged with assault,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But we need to think of a reason why you would run off with Hanson. It needs to be something the department will believe but won’t get Tom into any more trouble.”

An incredulous look had Booker’s eyebrows rising in surprise. “You’d do that for him?”

“Not for him, for me,” Harry stated with a smile. “I don’t really feel like breaking in a new partner, it was hard enough with you.”

A large grin spread across Booker’s face. “You really are an asshole,” he laughed before his grin slowly faded. “But what the hell are we going to say?”

Ioki narrowed his eyes in thought before a small smile curled at the corners of his lips. “That’s easy… we tell the truth.”


	17. Don't Know Why

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: As though in a daze, Ioki stood up and walking over to the bed, he sat down again. “You love Hanson,” he restated in a soft voice, as if repeating the words would help him to comprehend the information. He sat staring off into space for several moments before returning his gaze to Booker’s defiant face. “Jesus,” he muttered sympathetically, “the last few months must have been hell for you.”_
> 
> _Booker let out the breath he had been holding and managed a faint smile. “That’s the understatement of the year,” he quipped lamely. But when Harry did not respond, he walked over and sat next to him on the bed. “You’re not freaked out?”_
> 
> _Ioki looked up, his face a picture of understanding. “About you being in love with Hanson? No not really… I mean, who wouldn’t fall in love with him? He’s gorgeous, right?”_
> 
> _A genuine smile graced Booker’s lips and his expression relaxed. “Asshole,” he chided with a chuckle. “So we’re good?”_
> 
> _A dark cloud passed over Ioki’s face. “I’m okay with your sexuality Booker but I’m having a little trouble understanding why you felt the need to pistol-whip me and take off with a wanted fugitive.”_
> 
> _Embarrassment and shame flushed Booker’s cheeks an even deeper shade of scarlet. “I’m sorry,” he muttered remorsefully. “I saw the gun in your hand and I panicked. I was terrified you were going to shoot him.”_
> 
> _Ioki’s head nodded slowly up and down as he digested Booker’s words. “Okay, I get that. But why did you go with him?”_
> 
> _Booker’s lip twitched nervously. “Because I wanted to save him,” he admitted softly. “I wanted the old Tommy back.”_
> 
> _Harry remained lost in thought for several minutes before returning his gaze to his friend. “If I don’t press charges, you won’t be charged with assault,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But we need to think of a reason why you would run off with Hanson. It needs to be something the department will believe but won’t get Tom into any more trouble.”_
> 
> _An incredulous look had Booker’s eyebrows rising in surprise. “You’d do that for him?”_
> 
> _“Not for him, for you,” Harry stated with a smile. “I don’t really feel like breaking in a new partner, it was hard enough with you.”_
> 
> _A large grin spread across Booker’s face. “You really are an asshole,” he laughed before his grin slowly faded. “But what the hell are we going to say?”_
> 
> _Ioki narrowed his eyes in thought before a small smile curled at the corners of his lips. “That’s easy… we tell the truth.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35140387334/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Friday October 20th 1989 (3.18 p.m.)** _

A low hum of anticipation sounded over the crowded courtroom as journalists vied for premium vantage points, each eager to hear what the presiding magistrate had to say. The _good cop turned bad_ story was front-page news and each reporter wanted to make sure they wrote the best article, detailing all the angst and emotion that hung heavily in the air. The defendant was young, beautiful and the son of a respected police officer who had tragically lost his life serving his community. It was what every journalist prayed for; they could not have asked for a better story and they planned to milk it for what it was worth.

Magistrate Elwood Payne lifted his head and read out the charges in a gravelly, smoke damaged voice. “Thomas James Hanson, you are charged with one count of negligent homicide, which carries a penalty of up to five years in prison and one count of drug trafficking, which carries a penalty of up to ten years in prison. Do you understand the charges?”

When he failed to hear a charge of either assault or kidnapping, Tom looked up in surprise and it took him several seconds to comprehend the magistrate’s words. “Yes, your Honor,” he eventually muttered in a low voice before again lowering his head.

Payne cleared his throat and peered over the top of his half-frame glasses. “A preliminary hearing will be held on the eighth of November at 9.30 a.m. Bail is set at ten-thousand dollars. Court is adjourned.”

Booker tried to catch Tom’s eye as two burly officers led him down to the cells, but the ex-cop kept his gaze firmly on the floor. A tremor of fear ran through Booker’s body, he did not want Tom disconnecting from the world and sinking into a pit of depression because if he did, the likelihood that he would once again turn to drugs for solace was extremely high.

**

_**Friday October 20th 1989 (5.45 p.m.)** _

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor and standing up, Tom stared silently out of the barred cell as the cold hand of fate sent tremors through his body. He was awaiting transportation to the county jail and now that the time was imminent, his blood ran cold. He was still recovering from his rape and the thought of showering with hundreds of men filled him with a paralyzing fear. It was obvious he would be a target, not because he thought he was attractive, but because he was an ex-cop and ex-cops never fared well in jail.

A uniformed guard rounded the corner and unlocked the cell door. “It’s your lucky day _Naco_ , someone posted your bail.”

Tom’s eyes widened in surprise. “Who?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” the guard replied in a bored voice. “C’mon, there’s some paperwork to fill out before you can leave.”

With a burning curiosity, Hanson followed the guard upstairs to the administration office. When he saw Booker sitting on one of the hard plastic chairs, his heart fluttered into his throat. Once again, Dennis was proving to be his knight in shining armor. 

Ten minutes later and with a list of his bail conditions tucked safely in his pocket, he turned and walked over to his friend. When Booker’s lips curled into a cheeky smile, his resolve faltered and tears of gratitude filled his eyes. “Why?” he asked simply.

Afraid that Tom might breakdown from the stress and fatigue of the last few days, Booker protectively decided to keep the conversation light until they had some privacy. “I think the question should be, why not?” he quipped. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

“Home?” Tom asked in a dazed voice, his monosyllabic questions a testament to just how tired his mind and body were.

Booker put a reassuring arm around Tom’s shoulders. “Well, _my_ home to be exact, but hey, mi casa es su casa, right?”

Even after everything they had been through; the ups, the downs, and their unforgettable animalistic coupling, it still amazed Tom that Booker was willing to welcome him into his home. Tears once again blurred his vision and lowering his head, he wiped them away in embarrassment. Dennis had only ever known him at his very worst and yet the dark haired officer continued to stand steadfastly by his side, doggedly determined to help him through his living nightmare. He was not a fool, he was well aware that the man standing beside him had feelings for him, but he honestly did not understand why. Booker had never known the Tom Hanson that both Harry and Judy had known; the sweet, if somewhat headstrong Tom Hanson, who loyally stood by those he loved and yet, in the face of adversity, it was Booker who had repeatedly proved to be his most devoted if somewhat tough ally. He would never understand the whys or wherefores of their strange relationship, but he knew in his heart that he would forever be eternally grateful.

Looking down at Tom’s bowed head, Booker felt a stirring of affection, but he did not act upon it. Tom was obviously walking an emotional precipice and he did not want to complicate their volatile relationship by coming on too strong. Instead, he laid a companionable hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. How ‘bout a burger?”

Tom’s eyes remained glued to the floor. “Tired,” he mumbled. “I just wanna go…” 

The word _home_ stuck in his throat and this time, he was unable to control the emotions that had been threatening to erupt since he had arrived back in L.A. When the levee finally broke, seemingly endless tears streamed down his pale cheeks and covering his face with the palms of his hands, he struggled to suppress the heaving sobs that racked his frail body. When he had awoken from his emotional coma, he had not allowed himself the luxury of grieving for what Manning had taken away from him. His most pressing issue had been dealing with the reality of his imminent incarceration and everything else had become secondary. But now, as he stood in the vast hallway of the courthouse, the feelings he had kept suppressed had finally broken the surface in a torrent of unrestrained emotion and the pain in his heart was so overwhelming, his bony shoulders shuddered violently beneath Booker’s hand.

Unable to repress his desire to lend comfort to his friend, Booker wrapped his arms around Tom’s quivering body and hugged him close. “Shh,” he murmured into Tom’s sweet-smelling hair. “It’ll be okay baby… it’ll be okay.”

Although the term of endearment did not register in Tom’s distressed mind, it did with someone else and a loud snort sounded from across the room. As the derisive sound echoed in Booker’s ears, he turned his head and his coal-black eyes flashed angrily at the officer standing behind the counter. “If you’ve got something to say, say it to my fucking face,” he growled.

The overweight officer stared back insolently. “I ain’t got nothing to say to you… _fag_.”

Booker’s body tensed and releasing his hold on Tom, he took a step towards the officer. “I fucking _dare_ you to say that again,” he replied in a low, menacing voice, but a hand on his arm stopped him from moving any further forward towards his antagonist.

“Don’t,” Tom pleaded in a barely audible voice. “Let’s just go.”

It took all of Booker’s self-restraint not to pull away and leap over the counter so he could deliver his own form of justice to the homophobic police officer. But when he turned and gazed into Tom’s puffy, red-rimmed eyes, he immediately rethought his actions and reaching out, he gently brushed away the tears that clung to the long, thick lashes. “Yeah,” he replied in a voice loud enough for the desk officer to hear, “like we give a fuck what this fat piece of shit has to say,” and turning abruptly away, he put his arm around Tom and escorted him from the courthouse.

**

_**Friday October 20th 1989 (6.10 p.m.)** _

As the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, Mother Nature swept a brush over her expansive azure canvas, leaving a rosy tinge across the dusk sky. Tom stared blankly out of the cab’s back passenger window, unwilling to make small talk on the journey to Booker’s apartment. He had important things he needed to say and he did not want to waste his breath on idle chit-chat. The effects of the drug withdrawal and the distressing reality of his rape were finally taking their toll and he felt as though his mind and body were shutting down. But before he would allow himself to slip into the protective oblivion of sleep, there were questions that needed answers; questions that only Booker could give him.

The taxi stopped outside of a gray brick apartment building and stepping out of the car, Tom watched silently as his friend paid the fare. When Booker gave him an encouraging smile, he managed a weak smile in return and followed him into the complex. They rode the elevator in silence up to the third floor and when the door _pinged_ open, they walked down the dimly lit corridor to apartment 311. Booker fumbled his key in the lock for several moments before pushing open the door to his home and walking inside. He switched on the light and turning back around, he saw Tom standing in the doorway, his eyes once again cast to the floor. 

“Come in,” he murmured softly. But when Hanson lifted his head, he was shocked to see fresh tears glistening in his friend’s eyes. “Oh Tommy what’s wrong?”

Tom could no longer contain the thoughts that madly whirled inside his mind. “I don’t understand why you keep helping me!” he blurted out in a rush of words.

Booker stepped forward and taking Tom by the arm, he led him into the apartment and closing the door, he motioned for him to sit on the couch. Tom hesitated for a moment before perching stiffly on the edge of the leather cushion with his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Booker sat down on the coffee table opposite and leaning forward, he gently placed his hands on Tom’s knees. “I’m helping you because we’re friends.”

With his eyes fixed on the hands resting on his legs, Tom’s head slowly shook from side to side. “No, we’re not… I mean… we weren’t, not in the beginning… not when we first met.”

A lilting smile played over Booker’s lips. Despite their disastrous first case together, he had fallen for Tom the moment he had first laid eyes on him and, even though the ex-cop now knew he had feelings for him, he did not want to admit that those feelings had existed since day one. “That was then and a lot has changed since we first met. Let’s just say you’ve grown on me,” he joked lamely.

Lifting his gaze, Tom stared back with teary eyes. “You called me a whore,” he whispered in a choked voice. “I know I am but it really hurt when you said it. Why would you want to help me when you think I’m nothing more than a hustler?”

The truth of Hanson’s words cut to the very depths of Booker’s being and squeezing the thin legs beneath his hands, he gave his friend an apologetic smile. “I never should have said…” His voice trailed off and he let out a sigh, as he tried to justify the malevolence of his words. “I only said it because you backed me into a corner and I was… scared.”

“Of what?” Tom asked softly, his dark eyes penetrating Booker’s soul with their burning intensity.

Without allowing himself time to wonder if his words would have any far-reaching consequences, Booker threw caution to the wind and finally spoke what was in his heart. “Of admitting my true feelings for you. What happened that night at the motel, it wasn’t just a way to get off… it was something I’d dreamed about for months because… well… I love you Tom.”

As the full meaning of Booker’s words slowly sank in, Tom began to chew furiously on his lower lip. When Doug had first died, he had figured out that Dennis had feelings for him, but at the time, he had not given it any thought other than to be mildly flattered. However, a lot had changed since then, he had experienced gay sex and he and Booker had shared a sexual encounter that had awakened something inside him he had considered lost forever… the ability to feel and express love. But he never imagined that Booker was in love with him, how could he be? He had committed multiple crimes and had allowed multiple men to abuse his body. No one could love a man who had so little self worth that he would allow himself to be systematically used and violated just so he could stay permanently high. It was incomprehensible, yet Booker was sitting in front of him, having paid his ten-thousand dollars bail, and suddenly it became all too real. Booker loved him and he loved Booker but it was a doomed love story because the harsh reality was that no matter how long the process took, eventually, he was facing years in prison.

Getting slowly to his feet, he gazed down at his friend with sorrowful eyes. “I can’t give you what you want, so maybe you should take me back to jail and get the bail money back.”

Booker’s expression darkened. “You think I bailed you out so I could blackmail you into having sex with me?” he asked in a stilted voice. “What sort of a fucking prick do you think I am?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Tom screamed unexpectedly and turning around, he picked up a table lamp and smashed it against the wall. “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU LOVE ME! I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T…”

Within seconds, strong arms circled around him and pinned his arms to his torso. “LET ME GO!” he yelled hysterically as his body thrashed violently. “FUCKING LET ME GO!”

Although a little surprised by Tom’s strength, Booker easily overpowered him and throwing him to the floor, he quickly straddled his legs and grasping hold of his flailing arms, he restrained them above his head. “Not until you calm down,” he gasped as Tom’s body continued to struggle against his hold.

Weakened by the effects of his drug withdrawal and the abuse Manning had inflicted upon him, Tom soon tired and his body finally stilled. “Are you gonna be a good boy?” Booker asked with a hint of a smile.

But Tom was in no mood for jokes and he glared back with furious eyes. 

With a heavy sigh, Booker stood up and offered Tom his hand. Without taking it, Tom clambered to his feet and stared moodily at the floor, unwilling to meet Booker’s gaze. Picking up the broken table lamp, Booker placed it on the table and sat back down. “So, shall we try that conversation again _without_ the tantrum?” he asked in a calm voice.

Feeling a little foolish, Tom sat on the couch and resting his elbows on his knees, he covered his face with his hands. “I’m not what you want,” he mumbled against the sweaty flesh of his palms, ”you deserve better.”

Leaning forward, Booker gently pulled Tom’s hands away, revealing his pale face and tilting his chin upwards, he gazed deep into his tormented eyes. “I think that’s up to me to decide. But if you don’t feel the same way about me, that’s fine, my offer of friendship still stands and I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

Suddenly overwhelmed with weariness, Tom lowered his gaze and nodded his head. “I really appreciate that,” he muttered sadly, wishing he could tell Booker how he really felt, but knowing if he did, he would ruin his friend’s life forever. 

When Booker remained silent, he lifted his head and gave an apologetic smile. “I’m really tired,” he stated in a flat voice.

Booker tried to read the emotion in Tom’s eyes, but when all he received was a detached stare, he let out a soft sigh. “You can have my bed tonight, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Tom started to protest, but when he saw the warning look in Booker’s eyes, he nodded silently in reply and standing up, he walked into the bedroom and closed the door.


	18. Lovin’ You, Is It the Right Thing to Do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Booker’s expression darkened. “You think I bailed you out so I could blackmail you into having sex with me?” he asked in a stilted voice. “What sort of a fucking prick do you think I am?”_
> 
> _“I DON’T KNOW!” Tom screamed unexpectedly and turning around, he picked up a table lamp and smashed it against the wall. “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU LOVE ME! I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T…”_
> 
> _Within seconds, strong arms circled around him and pinned his arms to his torso. “LET ME GO!” he yelled hysterically as his body thrashed violently. “FUCKING LET ME GO!”_
> 
> _Although a little surprised by Tom’s strength, Booker easily overpowered him and throwing him to the floor, he quickly straddled his legs and grasping hold of his flailing arms, he restrained them above his head. “Not until you calm down,” he gasped as Tom’s body continued to struggle against his hold._
> 
> _Weakened by the effects of his drug withdrawal and the abuse Manning had inflicted upon him, Tom soon tired and his body finally stilled. “Are you gonna be a good boy?” Booker asked with a hint of a smile._
> 
> _But Tom was in no mood for jokes and he glared back with furious eyes._
> 
> _With a heavy sigh, Booker stood up and offered Tom his hand. Without taking it, Tom clambered to his feet and stared moodily at the floor, unwilling to meet Booker’s gaze. Picking up the broken table lamp, Booker placed it on the table and sat back down. “So, shall we try that conversation again without the tantrum?” he asked in a calm voice._
> 
> _Feeling a little foolish, Tom sat on the couch and resting his elbows on his knees, he covered his face with his hands. “I’m not what you want,” he mumbled against the sweaty flesh of his palms, ”you deserve better.”_
> 
> _Leaning forward, Booker gently pulled Tom’s hands away, revealing his pale face and tilting his chin upwards, he gazed deep into his tormented eyes. “I think that’s up to me to decide. But if you don’t feel the same way about me, that’s fine, my offer of friendship still stands and I’ll do everything I can to help you.”_
> 
> _Suddenly overwhelmed with weariness, Tom lowered his gaze and nodded his head. “I really appreciate that,” he muttered sadly, wishing he could tell Booker how he really felt, but knowing if he did, he would ruin his friend’s life forever._
> 
> _When Booker remained silent, he lifted his head and gave an apologetic smile. “I’m really tired,” he stated in a flat voice._
> 
> _Booker tried to read the emotion in Tom’s eyes, but when all he received was a detached stare, he let out a soft sigh. “You can have my bed tonight, I’ll sleep on the couch.”_
> 
> _Tom started to protest, but when he saw the warning look in Booker’s eyes, he nodded silently in reply and standing up, he walked into the bedroom and closed the door._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35809566332/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Friday October 20th 1989 (11.48 p.m.)** _

A terrified scream penetrated through the still night air, waking Booker with a start. He jumped up from the couch and in his disorientation, he tripped over the coffee table and crashed to the floor. “FUCK!” he yelled as a sharp pain flared in his right shin, but as the high-pitched screaming continued, he forgot his discomfort and clambering to his feet, he ran across the darkened living room and threw open the bedroom door. A quarter moon shone through the open window, its soft light casting eerie shadows across the small room. Tom lay in a tangle of bed sheets, his wide, panicked eyes staring blindly out in front of him and his face twisted into a grotesque mask as a high-pitched scream sounded through his parted lips. Perspiration glistened on his face and his bare chest gleaned, the slick droplets shimmering in the pale moonlight. It was a scene from a horror movie, a masterpiece of the slasher genre and yet it was a heart thumping reality playing out right before Booker’s eyes. He knew enough about night terrors to realize that Tom’s mind was caught somewhere between non-REM sleep and consciousness and although it was a distressing sight to witness, he knew better than to wake him. Instead, he moved forward and sitting on the edge of the mattress, he spoke in a soft, reassuring voice. “Shh baby, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

Slowly, Tom’s features relaxed and the horrific screaming stopped as quickly as it had begun. The sound of shallow breathing and the faint smell of stale sweat were all that remained of the nightmarish hell that had momentarily trapped his mind and paralyzed him with an unseen fear. The entire episode had lasted only a few minutes, but for Booker, it had seemed like a lifetime and as he gazed down into his friend’s now tranquil face, he felt a reluctance to leave his side. He was not sure what Tom’s reaction would be when he woke up to find him sleeping beside him, but it was a risk he was willing to take and swinging his legs onto the mattress, he lay down on his back and stared up at the ceiling. 

Minutes slowly ticked into hours and just before dawn, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

**

_**Saturday October 21st 1989 (8.23 a.m.)** _

Dazzling sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window and with an exhausted yawn, Booker’s eyes fluttered open. He had been asleep for less than an hour and his weary mind protested at the interruption to its much needed downtime. Moaning sleepily, he turned on his side and prepared to snuggle back under the comforting warmth of the bedclothes when he was met by two dark, soulful eyes staring intently at him from just inches away. 

He let out a yelp of surprise before remembering the previous night’s events and with a relieved sigh, he rubbed a hand over his bleary eyes and gave his bedmate an embarrassed smile. “Hey.”

Tom’s chocolate brown eyes gazed back inquisitively. “Hey yourself,” he replied in a soft voice.

Feeling the need to explain why they were sharing a bed, Booker struggled to articulate his explanation. “You… um… last night… you had a… I dunno, I suppose it was night terrors and I—”

“I never really thanked you for bailing me out,” Tom interrupted in a low voice.

Surprised by the change of conversation, Booker peered at Tom through his long, dark lashes. “Um… okay.”

Tom’s lips tilted into a familiar smile. “So _thank you_. I don’t know how you afforded it or how you made those other charges disappear, but I owe you a lot.”

It was Booker’s turn to smile and a lazy, knowing grin played over his lips. “Sometimes the truth is the best option.”

A soft, questioning frown knitted Tom’s brows together. “Huh?”

Booker let out a low laugh. “I told my Captain I knocked out Harry and ran away with you because I was in love with you and I couldn’t bear to see you so screwed up. Surprisingly, he took it pretty well.”

Tom’s eyes widened incredulously. “No… friggin’… way,” he uttered in disbelief. “You really _said_ that?”

The grin on Booker’s faced widened and he nodded his head. “Yep. Actually, it was Harry’s idea and it worked perfectly… except for the six months probation.”

A dark cloud passed over Tom’s face. “You’re on _probation?_ Jesus Dennis, you shouldn’t have—”

“Too late,” Booker replied in a soft, resolute voice. “I made my choice so let’s not talk about it, okay?”

As Tom stared into Dennis’ jet black eyes, his pulse quickened. Never before had a friend acted so selflessly without expectation of reward or compensation and he felt a flutter of love in his heart that awakened a fervor within him that he had successfully buried since Amy’s death. Over the past week, he was slowly beginning to believe that he _was_ capable of love because what he felt for Dennis was a raw, burning passion that had his nerves tingling with excitement and his blood running straight to his genitals. But it was more than that. It was a desperate ache in his heart and a hopeless longing for a gentle look or a tender smile that was his and his alone. He wanted Dennis to only have eyes for him and for no one else to exist in his world.

He wanted to be his lover.

His heart hammered in his chest and as he quickly pushed away the disturbing thought that he was selfishly ruining his friend’s life, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against the alluring flesh of Booker’s mouth. 

Although Tom’s lips barely made contact, a charge of sexual awakening shot through Booker’s body and his nerve endings jangled with a fiery bolt of electricity that stimulated his cock, bringing it to life. After everything Tom had endured in the last week; his drug withdrawal, arrest and rape, Booker knew his self esteem was low and that he was battling both emotional and physical demons. Therefore, as much as he yearned to have a relationship with him, he knew it was in Tom’s best interest to take a step back and just be there as a friend. However, that was the moral _superego_ part of his psyche stepping in and taking control. The selfish _id_ part of his psyche had boldly laid his heart on the table the night before because he _wanted_ Tom to know he was in love with him, in the faint hope that his confession would bring them together. But after Tom’s violent reaction to his declaration, his _superego_ had won the battle and he had accepted his fate that there would be no romance and they were destined to forever be friends.

Except…

Tom’s tongue gently parted his lips and when the moist flesh caressed the tip of his tongue, a low excited groan rumbled from deep within his chest. His dream was rapidly becoming a reality and his blood ignited, the heat flaring straight to his groin. But with the euphoria came a nagging doubt and his _superego_ stepped in and broke the kiss.

“What are we doing?” he whispered in a breathless voice, his dark eyes desperately searching Tom’s face for answers.

Without hesitation, Tom leaned in and sucked seductively on Booker’s lower lip. “Isn’t this what you want?” he murmured softly and reaching under the covers, he trailed a light finger up and down Booker’s naked torso.

The sensation of Tom’s fingers gently caressing his bare skin increased Booker’s desires and wrapping an arm around his slender body, he pulled him close. “Yes,” he breathed as he nipped and sucked at the soft flesh of Tom’s soft lips. “But my head's telling me to back off.” 

The feel of Booker’s erection rubbing against him had Tom panting with delight and gazing at his friend, he ground his pelvis against the hard mound. “And what's your heart telling you to do?” he moaned, the thrill of the stimulation making his nerves jangle with anticipation.

Throwing back the bed sheets, Booker flipped Tom onto his back and straddling his thighs, he grasped hold of his wrists and pinned them above his head. Leaning forward, his dark eyes softened as he gazed into Tom’s exquisitely beautiful face. “It’s telling me to love you.”

Tom drew in a sharp intake of breath and his eyes gleamed with a hot passion. “Then do it,” he breathed.

“Oh baby,” Booker moaned and ducking his head, he pressed his mouth against Tom’s parted lips and kissed him passionately. Tom’s pelvis thrust forward, his cock aching for contact and with a grin, Booker broke the kiss and gazed deep into the liquid pools of his lover’s dark eyes. “Is there something you want baby?” he teased in a low voice.

A flash of desire darkened Tom’s eyes. “Touch me,” he moaned. 

Letting go of Tom’s wrists, Booker straightened up and slipping his fingers inside the waistband of his lover’s cotton boxers, he slowly lowered them until his cock sprang free. The sight of Tom’s long, thick shaft laying against his flat belly sent a shiver of desire through his body. He could see precum glistening on the tip, and more than anything, he longed to coat his tongue with the sapidity of the juices leaking from the smooth cockhead. But he was not about to rush things. He enjoyed the foreplay and before he was through, he would have his lover trembling beneath his touch, begging him for release because Tom was now his puppet and he was the puppeteer.

With a cheeky grin he shuffled down the bed, the heat in his eyes igniting a fire deep inside Tom's soul. With a slow, teasing motion, he leisurely pulled down Tom’s boxers, revealing his flesh inch by inch until they were finally free from his body. His own erection jutted forward, tenting his shorts and he longed to release it from its confines so he could rub it against Tom’s naked flesh. But he was determined to take it slow because he wanted to remember the moment forever.

Taking hold of Tom’s left leg, he gently bent it at the knee before positioning himself between his open legs and with one fluid motion, he ducked his head and swept his tongue up the length of Tom’s inner thigh. He could feel the warm flesh quivering beneath him and he paused to suck on the tight skin as his fingers gently rubbed over the rough flesh of Tom’s perineum. A loud moan sounded from above and he could feel Tom’s legs trembling uncontrollably. He smiled against the smoothness of the skin beneath his lips and moving his head slightly to the right, he lightly mouthed over Tom’s sac.

The stimulation was unlike anything Tom had ever experienced and his body squirmed beneath Booker’s hot mouth. “Oh God,” he moaned, “oh _God_ ,” and reaching down, he stroked his weeping cock.

Sensing movement from above, Booker lifted his head and with a taunting grin, he sat up and gently removed Tom’s hand from his burgeoning erection. “No touching,” he admonished in a soft, singsong voice, his dark eyes twinkling with excitement. 

Tom groaned at the loss of stimulation, but his body soon began to writhe on the crumpled bed sheets when Booker hovered over his erection, touching his sensitive cockhead with his breath. “I’m so hard Dennis, oh God, I’m _so_ hard,” he whimpered in a breathless voice. “I need more… kiss it Dennis… oh God _kiss_ it.”

Booker’s eyes flared with passion and sweeping his tongue across his lips in readiness, he ducked his head and kissed Tom’s weeping slit.

A jolt of fire shot through Tom’s body and reaching out, he tangled his fingers in Dennis’ dark, tousled hair. “Again,” he gasped, “kiss it again!”

Without hesitation, Booker obliged. He sucked lovingly on the tip before swirling his tongue around the coronal ridge. Rough hands ripped through his hair, urging him on and taking a breath, he ran his mouth up and down the full length of Tom’s shaft, devouring his rock hard erection with greedy lips.

“ _Yesss!”_ Tom hissed and grasping hold of the headboard above him, he thrust his hips off the bed. “That feels… so… fucking… good!”

Booker opened up his throat and allowed Tom to fuck his mouth and when his lover’s movements became frantic, he took control of the situation and gently grasping the base of his cock, he moved his mouth back up the long shaft. When he reached the tip, he took a breath and wrapping his lips around the weeping cockhead, he began to hum.

The vibration was the most erotic sensation Tom had ever experienced and with a yell, he exploded from within, flooding Booker's mouth with his semen. “ _JEEESUUUS!”_

As Tom’s juices coated his tongue, Booker’s own body reacted and without any physical stimulation, he ejaculated into his boxers. Never before could he remember having such an intense reaction to the taste of another man’s semen and he moaned against the softening cock in his mouth. At that very moment, he felt complete.

Seconds later, gentle hands guided him upward and the two men hungrily sought out each other’s mouths. Tom groaned as the taste of his own juices transferred from Booker's tongue to his own, the salty fluid uniting them as one and it was then that he knew he had found his soul mate.

When the kiss eventually slowed, he gently pulled away and tenderly brushing Dennis’ hair from his face, he gazed deep into his dark eyes. “I _love_ you,” he whispered in a trembling voice.

The admission was so unexpected Booker’s jaw dropped open and he stared at Tom in surprise. “Jesus Tommy… I… Jesus.”

It was not the reaction Tom had anticipated. His face flushed with embarrassment and he immediately lowered his gaze. “Sorry,” he muttered. “That was stupid.”

Hearing the pain in Hanson’s voice, Booker immediately regretted his clumsy response. “No!” he exclaimed quickly and wrapping his arms around Tom’s slender waist, he pulled him close. “It’s not stupid, it’s… Jesus Tom, do you _really_ feel that way about me?”

Tom’s lower lip pushed into a soft pout as he slowly nodded his head. “I’ve been trying to ignore it because I don’t want to ruin your life and— ”

“Whoa!” Booker interrupted and reaching out, he cupped Tom’s face in the palm of his hand. “You’re not ruining my life Tommy, you’re _completing_ it because I’ve loved you since the first day I met you.”

Tom’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “ _Really?_ I thought… Jesus, I don’t know what I thought, I mean, I knew you liked me but— ”

“ _Love_ you,” Booker corrected with a smile and gazing into Tom’s eyes, his expression softened. “I want to try and make this work,” he murmured as his thumb stroked Tom’s smooth cheek. “Whatever happens, I want to try.”

A dark cloud passed over Tom’s flushed face. “Even if I go to prison,” he whispered in an anguished voice.

“Even if you go to prison,” Booker stated resolutely and rolling onto his back, he pulled Tom onto his chest and gently tugged at the soft hair at the nape of his neck. 

Tom’s eyes fluttered closed and he took comfort from the gentle caress. Maybe, despite everything, he had a chance to again live a normal life, if only for a short while.


	19. Emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry this chapter has taken so long to post, I will try and do better!**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: As Tom’s juices coated his tongue, Booker’s own body reacted and without any physical stimulation, he ejaculated into his boxers. Never before could he remember having such an intense reaction to the taste of another man’s semen and he moaned against the softening cock in his mouth. At that very moment, he felt complete._
> 
> _Seconds later, gentle hands guided him upward and the two men hungrily sought out each other’s mouths. Tom groaned as the taste of his own juices transferred from Booker's tongue to his own, the salty fluid uniting them as one and it was then that he knew he had found his soulmate._
> 
> _When the kiss eventually slowed, he gently pulled away and tenderly brushing Dennis’ hair from his face, he gazed deep into his dark eyes. “I love you,” he whispered in a trembling voice._
> 
> _The admission was so unexpected Booker’s jaw dropped open and he stared at Tom in surprise. “Jesus Tommy… I… Jesus.”_
> 
> _It was not the reaction Tom had anticipated. His face flushed with embarrassment and he immediately lowered his gaze. “Sorry,” he muttered. “That was stupid.”_
> 
> _Hearing the pain in Hanson’s voice, Booker immediately regretted his clumsy response. “No!” he exclaimed quickly and wrapping his arms around Tom’s slender waist, he pulled him close. “It’s not stupid, it’s… Jesus Tom, do you really feel that way about me?”_
> 
> _Tom’s lower lip pushed into a soft pout as he slowly nodded his head. “I’ve been trying to ignore it because I don’t want to ruin your life and— ”_
> 
> _“Whoa!” Booker interrupted and reaching out, he cupped Tom’s face in the palm of his hand. “You’re not ruining my life Tommy, you’re completing it because I’ve loved you since the first day I met you.”_
> 
> _Tom’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Really? I thought… Jesus, I don’t know what I thought, I mean, I knew you liked me but— ”_
> 
> _“Love you,” Booker corrected with a smile and gazing into Tom’s eyes, his expression softened. “I want to try and make this work,” he murmured as his thumb stroked Tom’s smooth cheek. “Whatever happens, I want to try.”_
> 
> _A dark cloud passed over Tom’s flushed face. “Even if I go to prison,” he whispered in an anguished voice._
> 
> _“Even if you go to prison,” Booker stated resolutely and rolling onto his back, he pulled Tom onto his chest and gently tugged at the soft hair at the nape of his neck._
> 
> _Tom’s eyes fluttered closed and he took comfort from the gentle caress. Maybe, despite everything, he had a chance to again live a normal life, if only for a short while._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170026053/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Saturday October 21st 1989 (10.15 a.m.)** _

Booker awoke to the sensation of Tom’s lips playfully sucking on his nipple and a light hand teasingly caressing his growing erection. Wrapping his arms around the younger man’s body, he lovingly kissed the top of his head. “Mmm,” he moaned softly, “are you trying to tell me something Hanson?”

Tom flicked his tongue over the hard nub of flesh, immediately eliciting another murmur of pleasure from his lover and lifting his head, he gazed at the man he loved with bright, mischievous eyes. “You’re a cop, figure it out.”

With a growl of dominance, Booker flipped Tom onto his back and straddling his legs, he pinned his wrists to the mattress. Ducking his head, he dipped his tongue in his lover’s navel, swirling it in the slight indentation. Tom squirmed in delight as hot breath tickled his skin, arousing his flesh with dozens of goose bumps, each one electrifying his senses and making him hypersensitive to the tantalizing titillation. But as exciting and stimulating as the feel of Booker’s tongue against his skin was, it was not the scenario he had in mind when he had woken with a hard-on, and placing his palm against his lover’s cheek, he gently lifted his head and gazed into his dark eyes. “I wanna taste you,” he murmured seductively.

Dennis’ stomach flip-flopped with hot desire but he felt a pang of disappointment. He longed to feel Tom’s cock growing in his mouth, coaxing it to life until his lover’s tangy essence coated his tongue. But as he gazed down into Tom’s liquid brown eyes, an idea slowly formed in his mind and a cheeky grin played over his lips. He knew _exactly_ what to do.

Sitting back up, he quickly removed his boxers, revealing his semi-hard erection. “Ever heard of a _soixante-neuf?”_ he asked in a soft, playful voice.

Tom’s brow knitted together in confusion. “Since when did you start speaking French?”

A low chuckle escaped Booker’s lips and he shook his head back and forth. “Tsk, tsk Tommy and here I was thinking you were an educated man. A _soixante-neuf_ is what we crass Americans call a sixty-niner. Ring any bells?”

A pink flush stained Tom’s cheeks, making him appear much younger than his twenty-four years and he rubbed a nervous hand over his lips. “I… um… I’ve never actually… you know… _done_ that.”

Booker managed to suppress the smile that threatened to reveal his amusement but he could not control the teasing sparkle in his eyes. “Oh baby,” he crooned, “you have _no_ idea what you’re missing out on.”

The Hanson of old would have reacted defensively at the embarrassment of revealing his naïvety but the new, more sexually worldly Hanson was eager to learn and his eyes danced with arousal. “Show me,” he murmured.

Bending forward, Booker brushed his lips against Tom’s full pout. “You’re in for a treat,” he whispered before slowly changing positions so he was kneeling next to Tom’s head. “Bend your knees up,” he instructed and when Tom had complied, he once again straddled his lover’s body except this time he was facing backwards. 

Dropping to his hands, he positioned himself so his mouth was directly above Tom’s cock, and Tom’s mouth was directly below his. Without needing to be told, Tom gently took hold of the base of his erection and proceeded to suck on the tip. A low moan escaped Booker’s lips and ducking his head, he mirrored his lover’s actions. Within seconds, the exquisite flavor of Tom’s precum awakened his taste buds and the thrilling sensation of soft lips moving over his hardened cock was almost too much to bear. Light tremors vibrated throughout his body, electrifying his flesh and every nerve ending. When Tom’s hips began to lift off the mattress, forcing his cock deep inside his mouth, he simulated the action by slowly lowering and raising his pelvis. It was a primordial instinct, an inherent desire to both give and receive pleasure and they fell into a hypnotic rhythm of thrusting and sucking, each movement becoming steadily more fevered as their arousal intensified. 

The salty tang against Booker’s tongue became more powerful and he knew Tom was close. Doubling his efforts, he increased the pressure of his lips and mouthed frantically up and down his lover’s shaft. A strangled cry sounded from behind him, the sound waves pulsating over his cock, leaving him shuddering with delight as warm semen shot into his throat. Without breaking rhythm, he swallowed instinctively, savoring the uniqueness of Tom’s sapidity but moments later, his own selfish needs took over and releasing the softening cock from his mouth, he ducked his head so he could watch his own erection thrusting in and out from between Tom’s lips. The sight was so erotic he lasted only a few seconds before his seed exploded from within, and ramming his cock deep inside Tom’s throat, he shot forth his orgasm.

Tom continued to lap and suck on his cock but Booker could feel his arms giving way and he slowly extricated himself from his lover’s hungry mouth before collapsing. An amused laugh rang out behind him and panting heavily, he disentangled himself and turning around, he flopped down on the mattress next to Tom. Turning his head, he brushed his lover’s hair from his flushed face and grinned happily. “So, what did you think?”

Throwing his arms around Booker, Tom snuggled in close. “It was fucking awesome,” he sighed contentedly as his eyelids grew heavy. “I could do that… all…” 

When Tom did not finish his sentence, Booker looked down and saw that his eyes were closed and a pang of pure love burst throughout his heart. He wanted to forget the rest of the world and lie there soaking up the bewitching beauty of his lover’s angelic expression but there were pressing issues that needed addressing and with a regretful sigh, he poked Tom in the ribs. “C’mon, we need to get cleaned up.”

Tom’s eyes remained firmly closed but his lower lip pushed forward. “Don’t wanna,” he muttered petulantly.

At that precise moment, Tom had never looked so enchanting. With his rosy cheeks and soft, pouty lips, he was the picture of seduction and if Booker had been physically capable, he would have rolled Tom over and made love to him then and there. But two orgasms in two hours was the best he could hope for, plus Tom was still healing from his violent rape. However, one day, he hoped to make his dream a reality.

Sitting up, he gave Tom a playful slap on his butt. “Shower time.”

One dark, sleepy eye opened and peered up at him through its long, thick lashes. “Will you wash me?” Tom asked enticingly.

Booker tried to suppress the moan of longing that threatened to spill from between his lips, but he failed miserably. He could see their Saturday turning into a twenty-four hour sexathon and as much as he ached to explore his lover’s body over and over until fatigued rendered him incapable, he knew he needed to be the judicious one. Tom’s future was in his hands and he would not allow himself to become distracted to the point of being negligent in what he foresaw as his duty. However, he was a red-blooded male who was still in his sexual prime and he was not going to turn down the opportunity to rediscover the tantalizing secrets of Tom’s slender, young body, so with a grin, he held out his hand. “Let’s go.”

A slow, teasing smile played over Tom’s lips and taking Booker’s hand in his, he allowed himself to be led into the bathroom. He stood patiently until his lover had the shower set to a warm temperature before stepping under the soothing cascade of water and gazing seductively through his long, wet lashes. “I’m waiting,” he murmured in a soft, teasing voice.

Without hesitation, Booker stepped into the cubicle and tenderly pushing Tom’s wet hair from his face, he gently brushed his lips over his full, inviting pout. Eager hands grasped his buttocks, pulling him close and as the temperate spray of water flowed over him, he deepened the kiss. Their tongues danced playfully, eliciting the tangy taste of semen that lingered in their saliva. It was a powerful exchange and they both reveled in the masculine flavors that once again stimulated their taste buds. 

When the kiss finally ended, Booker picked up the soap and lathering it to a foamy froth, he began to wash Tom’s torso. He took his time, exploring every inch of his naked flesh with his fingers, being careful not to press too hard on the yellowish-green bruises that still adorned his lover’s pale skin, which were the result of their fight in the motel. Once satisfied he was clean, he re-soaped his hands and gently ran his fingers over the length of Tom’s cock. 

Hanson closed his eyes and although incapable of gaining another erection so soon after his last, he took great pleasure from the tender strokes of light fingers playing over his shaft. Desperate to return the favor, he took the soap from his lover’s hand and devotedly cleansed his body. Once their wet skin was fragrantly perfumed with the alluring scent of Old Spice, they lovingly shampooed each other’s hair. Although he wanted the moment to last a lifetime, Booker eventually turned off the faucets and led Tom dripping from the shower into the steamy bathroom. They rubbed each other down with soft fluffy towels, pausing occasionally to press their lips together and kiss affectionately. Once dry, they brushed their teeth and combed their damp hair before returning to the bedroom. They dressed in look-alike outfits of jeans and t-shirt, all belonging to Booker, as Tom now only owned one set of clothes. An amused smile touched Booker’s lips as he gazed at Tom in the ill-fitting clothing, but he kept his mirth to himself, unwilling to embarrass his lover by making a joke of his appearance.

Walking out into the small living area of his apartment, Booker immediately set to work making a couple of omelets. Tom sat at the small dining table, watching him with a slight, enamored smile curling at his lips. Booker always gave the appearance of being a resilient, leather jacket wearing, somewhat conceited tough guy and yet the reality was rather different. Although he was all of the aforementioned, he was also extremely sensitive and considerate, plus he seemed to know his way around a kitchen. Tom could not cook to save his life and he lived on frozen meals or takeout. He honestly never would have expected Booker to be so… _domesticated_ but the realization only made his love for him grow stronger. There was more to Dennis Booker than met the eye.

Minutes later, a cheese and tomato omelet was placed in front of him and smiling appreciatively, he immediately began shoveling the eggs into his mouth. “Where did you learn to cook?” he asked through a mouthful of food.

Booker sat down and a reminiscent memory glistened in his eyes. “My grandma,” he replied softly. “I spent a lot of time with her growing up.”

Sensing sadness in his lover’s voice, Tom put down his fork and reaching out, he took hold of his lover’s hand and gave the fingers a gentle squeeze. “Sorry, I kinda feel like I’ve stirred up a painful memory.”

A twitch of a smile graced Booker’s lips before vanishing completely and lowering his eyes, he gazed down at his plate. “She died last year. I guess I still miss her.”

Tom was all too familiar with the pain of losing a loved one and he also understood the reluctance to talk about it. He gave Booker’s fingers another loving squeeze before picking up his fork. “If you ever want to talk about it,” he offered lamely.

A slight frown creased Booker’s smooth brow and drawing his hand away, he lifted his head and gave Tom a resolute look. “Actually, we _do_ need to talk… just not about that.”

Tom’s body instantly stiffened at the ominous tone in his lover’s voice and placing his fork down for a second time, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “About what then?”

Booker ran a hand through his dark hair. “About your life Tommy. Your preliminary hearing is less than three weeks away and we need to start searching for a lawyer so—”

“I can’t afford a lawyer,” Tom interrupted in a terse voice, “and I won’t have you paying for one.”

It was the response Booker had expected but he could not help but let out an exasperated sigh. “This isn’t the time for your pride to stand in the way of common sense Hanson. A public defender isn’t going to get you off these charges; you need a top end lawyer and I can give you that.”

Tom stood up with such force, the chair’s legs caught on the worn linoleum, toppling it to the floor with a crash. “I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING CHARITY CASE!” he yelled, his face flushing red with anger. “I may have screwed up my life but I don’t need you stepping in like the Greatest _fucking_ American Hero and saving the day! So back... the fuck… _OFF!”_

A dark cloud passed over Booker’s eyes and standing up, he threw his fork onto the table. “Fine!” he shot back angrily. “I thought I was _helping_ you but hey, if you want to go it alone, be my fucking guest,” and turning away, he stomped into the bedroom and slammed the door closed with a resounding bang.

Tears filled Tom’s eyes but he refused to give into his emotions and angrily swiping them away, he stormed from the apartment.

**

_**Saturday October 21st 1989 (9.05 p.m.)** _

Tom stood on the sidewalk outside Booker’s apartment, staring up at the night sky. He knew the stars were out there, blanketed behind the pollution and harsh L.A. lights, but they were invisible to his naked eye. The fulfillment within his soul that Booker had given him had slowly ebbed away, leaving him empty inside. He felt completely alone, lost in a vast universe he could not see and his insignificance only heightened his feelings of solitude. In the space of only a week, he had successfully alienated himself from the one person who was willing to help him and he was once again, on his own.

When a gentle hand rested on the small of his back, he let out a startled yelp and spinning around, he gazed into his lover’s dark eyes. A mixture of shame, embarrassment and anger consumed him and turning away, he lifted his gaze back up to the night’s sky. “How did you know I was here?”

Booker shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. “I’ve been staring out of the window for hours, hoping you’d come home,” he confessed in a soft voice.

Tom turned his head and gave Booker a sad look. “This isn’t my home,” he murmured. “I’m kidding myself to think I could ever have a normal life again. I’m going to be found guilty and I’m going to prison, and the sooner I face that reality instead of living in a dream, then the easier it will be.”

A loud, disgruntled _pfft_ exhaled from between Booker’s pursed lips and stepping in front of Tom, he pushed his face close and glared angrily into his eyes. “You’re a dick!” he exclaimed in a raised voice.

Surprised by Booker’s verbal attack, Tom took a step backwards and stared at his friend open-mouthed. “I’m a wh—”

“Dick!” Booker repeated loudly. “You’re giving up before you’ve even started. The Tom Hanson I _used_ to know would _never_ have been such a pussy! Why won’t you fucking _fight?”_

Once again, tears pricked at Tom’s eyes but he quickly blinked them away. He wanted to yell at Booker that he wasn’t a coward but instead he spoke in a soft, barely audible voice. “Because I won’t win.”

Placing his hands on Tom’s shoulders, Booker pressed his forehead against his lover’s and whispered softly, “Then let me help you.”

The love in Booker’s voice echoed in Tom’s heart and unable to control his emotions any longer, he burst into tears. “I don’t deserve you,” he sobbed.

Booker wrapped his arms around his friend and pulled him close. “Yeah you do,” he replied with a smile and taking hold of his lover’s hand, he led him back home.


	20. Blinded by Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I'm not sure when the next chapter will be posted as I have a busy few days coming up.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Saturday October 21st 1989 (9.05 p.m.)_
> 
> _Tom stood on the sidewalk outside Booker’s apartment, staring up at the night sky. He knew the stars were out there, blanketed behind the pollution and harsh L.A. lights, but they were invisible to his naked eye. The fulfillment within his soul that Booker had given him had slowly ebbed away, leaving him empty inside. He felt completely alone, lost in a vast universe he could not see and his insignificance only heightened his feelings of solitude. In the space of only a week, he had successfully alienated himself from the one person who was willing to help him and he was once again, on his own._
> 
> _When a gentle hand rested on the small of his back, he let out a startled yelp and spinning around, he gazed into his lover’s dark eyes. A mixture of shame, embarrassment and anger consumed him and turning away, he lifted his gaze back up to the night’s sky. “How did you know I was here?”_
> 
> _Booker shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. “I’ve been staring out of the window for hours, hoping you’d come home,” he confessed in a soft voice._
> 
> _Tom turned his head and gave Booker a sad look. “This isn’t my home,” he murmured. “I’m kidding myself to think I could ever have a normal life again. I’m going to be found guilty and I’m going to prison, and the sooner I face that reality instead of living in a dream, then the easier it will be.”_
> 
> _A loud, disgruntled pfft sound exhaled from between Booker’s pursed lips and stepping in front of Tom, he pushed his face close and glared angrily into his eyes. “You’re a dick!” he exclaimed in a raised voice._
> 
> _Surprised by Booker’s verbal attack, Tom took a step backwards and stared at his friend open-mouthed. “I’m a wh—”_
> 
> _“Dick!” Booker repeated loudly. “You’re giving up before you’ve even started. The Tom Hanson I used to know would never have been such a pussy! Why won’t you fucking fight?”_
> 
> _Once again, tears pricked at Tom’s eyes but he quickly blinked them away. He wanted to yell at Booker that he wasn’t a coward but instead he spoke in a soft, barely audible voice. “Because I won’t win.”_
> 
> _Placing his hands on Tom’s shoulders, Booker pressed his forehead against his lover’s and whispered softly, “Then let me help you.”_
> 
> _The love in Booker’s voice echoed in Tom’s heart and unable to control his emotions any longer, he burst into tears. “I don’t deserve you,” he sobbed._
> 
> _Booker wrapped his arms around his friend and pulled him close. “Yeah you do,” he replied with a smile and taking hold of his lover’s hand, he led him back home._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35809566092/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Monday October 23rd 1989 (10.12 a.m.)** _

Gareth Williams took off his glasses and laying them on his large, solid wood desk, he tented his fingers under his chin and drawing his bushy eyebrows together, he peered at Tom through narrowed eyes. “I’ve got to be honest with you Mr. Hanson, it doesn’t look good.”

Tom started to speak but Booker interrupted him and leaning over the desk, he gave the middle-aged defense attorney an exasperated look. “What do you mean it doesn’t look good? Surely there’s something—”

The obvious tension in Booker’s body reminded Tom of a coiled spring and laying a gentle hand on his lover’s arm, he pulled him back into his seat. “C’mon Dennis, let the man talk.”

With an exasperated sigh, Booker sat back in his chair but his body remained tense. This was not the news he had been hoping for when he had engaged the services of Gareth Williams; high priced attorney extraordinaire. An eternal optimist, he had assumed that by procuring the best of the best, the attorney would find a technicality in the case against Tom and his lover would be free to begin his new life. But now it appeared even Williams did not have the talent to wave a magic wand and make the last seven and a half months of Tom’s life disappear into the ether, and the news was devastating.

Williams picked up his glasses and settling them on his bulbous nose, he scanned through his notes. “So the good news is that the charge of negligent homicide is circumstantial at best. Whilst there’s no argument that it was a bullet from _your_ gun that inflicted the fatal wound on Officer Penhall, Officer Ioki cannot give a clear and precise account of what transpired that night in the warehouse and Officer Booker backs your recollection of events. There is no proof you were negligent in your duty as a police officer and I am confident I can convince a jury that it was just an unfortunate accident."

Heat flamed Tom’s face and he quickly ducked his head. Both he and Booker knew _exactly_ what had occurred that fateful evening and although a huge part of him knew he deserved to go to prison, he was terrified of the actuality. A part of his soul had died the day Doug drew his last breath and he lived with the guilt every second, of every minute, of every day. Since becoming sober, his shame and remorse had intensified and although he did not remember the terrifying nightmares that now plagued his mind, he was certain that in his dreams, he relived the moment the bullet from his gun pierced his best friend’s chest and began the ticking time bomb that ultimately ended his life.

A tender hand squeezed his thigh and looking up, he saw Booker’s charcoal eyes gazing affectionately at him through dark lashes and he managed a watery smile. He needed to keep it together for the duration of the meeting because if he allowed his emotions to take hold, he knew he would break down completely.

Unaware of Tom’s inner turmoil, or the loving look from Booker to his friend, Williams continued to read from his yellow legal pad. “In contrast, the charge of drug trafficking _has_ direct evidence. There are both audio and visual tapes of you selling narcotics to two undercover agents. There was no entrapment, it is a clear case of trafficking an unlawful controlled substance; there is no wiggle room, you were caught red handed.”

Booker’s brow creased into a deep frown. “What about Tom’s mental state? He was grieving the death of his partner and he had suffered another tragic loss only a year before. Surely we can use that in his defense. He was clearly not in his right mind and…”

Tom closed his eyes and shut out the sound of the two men’s voices. He was tired and depressed and he felt as though his entire future rested in the hands of others. Booker was footing the bill for Williams, and whether or not he went to prison rested on the proficiency of the attorney. He had no control over his life and he felt impotent and worthless, almost childlike in his need for assistance. All his life he had been independent and now, at the grand old age of twenty-four, he was reliant on others for help and the truth did not sit well with him. Never before had he felt so powerless.

Opening his eyes, he tuned back into the conversation just as the two men appeared to be wrapping it up. Even though he was the one facing prison time, he had barely spoken a word during the hour-long discussion and the fact only added to his misery. He felt like the invisible man who would only become corporeal when it was time to parade him in front of a marauding crowd of onlookers, each one of them baying for his blood because of his indiscretions and once sentenced for the heinous crimes he had committed, he would once again, fade into oblivion.

His only significance lay with his crimes.

**

_**Monday October 23rd 1989 (11.02 a.m.)** _

The atmosphere during the cab ride back to the apartment was tense and uncomfortable. Booker tried on several occasions to talk to Tom about their meeting but his lover rudely refused to acknowledge his presence, preferring to stare out the passenger window at the people going about their everyday lives with seemingly not a care in the world. Seeing others so happy when his world was slowly imploding made him bitter and angry and his mind turned to Amy. He now wished with all his heart that he had tackled the gunman and either saved Amy’s life or been killed himself because if either one of those scenarios had played out, he would not be where he was today.

When the cab pulled up outside their building, he exited the car and without waiting for Booker, he climbed the stairs up to the apartment. He unlocked the door with the key Booker had given him and leaving it ajar, he walked into the bedroom and slammed the door closed with a resounding bang.

A minute later, Booker entered and looking around, he sighed when he saw the closed bedroom door. It not only stood as a physical barrier between him and Tom but also a metaphorical one, symbolizing their growing detachment. Since Tom had stormed from the apartment two days before, there had been an uncomfortable formalness to their relationship. They still slept in the same bed, occasionally kissed and hugged but there was no fire, no fervor in their affections. If he attempted more, a tender caress that just days before would have led to a passionate encounter, Tom immediately froze before pulling away, signaling that Booker had over stepped the boundaries. Booker was astute enough to know Tom felt awkward about the amount of money he was spending on providing him with clothes, food and the best attorney he could afford but that did not make the situation any easier to accept. For the briefest of moments, he had experienced the psychological, physical and spiritual pleasure of being a significant part of Tom’s life. But now he could feel him slowly slipping away and a pain stabbed at his heart. He had waited so long to hold his lover in his arms and he would be damned if he would lose him now.

Shrugging out of his leather jacket, he tossed it onto a chair and walked over to his bedroom. He paused for a moment before rapping his knuckles on the door. When he received no answer, he called out, “I’m coming in,” and turning the handle, he walked inside.

Tom lay curled on top of the duvet with his knees drawn up to his chest and his back facing the door. From where Booker was standing, he looked small and vulnerable and another physical pain stabbed at his heart. He could not bear to see his lover slowly plummeting into a black pit of depression and he knew he needed to be the strong one and offer reassurances that everything would be all right. However, deep down, he knew it would _not_ be okay because unless there was some divine intervention, Tom _was_ going to prison. The only uncertainly was for how long.

Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he hesitated for a fraction of a second before laying his hand on his lover’s shoulder. “Talk to me baby,” he murmured.

Tom’s body stiffened under his touch and with a sigh, he removed his hand. “Williams is one of the best. There’s no point in worrying until we have something to worry about.”

When Tom remained stubbornly silent, he attempted a different tact. “I’m sure Amy’s death will carry some weight, you lost the love of your life and then when Penhall—”

“I didn’t love her,” Tom interrupted in a barely audible voice. 

Taken aback by Tom’s admission, Booker faltered for words. “What? I, er… I don’t… I thought she was—”

“She wasn’t” Tom stated unemotionally, as he continued to stare at the wall. “She died in my arms and I felt nothing, except relief that I wouldn’t have to have the awkward breakup talk.” He wavered for a moment before turning over and whispering up at Booker in a voice filled with pain and self-loathing, “What kind of a monster am I?”

Booker’s heart hammered in his chest and he remained motionless, staring down at Tom as he attempted to digest the startling information his lover had just revealed. To hear him admit that he had remained unmoved by the death of his girlfriend, a young woman in the prime of her life who had died bleeding in his arms was both shocking and confusing and he briefly wondered if Tom really was emotionally incapable of true love. He thought back to the motel when he had muttered the harsh statement, _“You’re a selfish prick Hanson, you don’t know the meaning of love and you never will,”_ and he now wondered if he should have heeded his own words and never entered into a relationship with a man who appeared to be hollow inside. However, Tom _had_ grieved for Penhall with the propensity of a man who had lost a friend he adored, but his emotional disparity between the death of a lover and the death of a friend confused him. Tom had shared the most intimate of moments with Amy, he had made love to her, their bodies joining as one as passion flared from their loins and yet it had meant nothing. When she ceased to be he had not mourned the loss of a young life or felt an overwhelming emptiness in his arms, he had, by his own admission, felt nothing.

Rubbing a shaky hand over his mouth, he struggled to find the words to ease Tom’s pain but instead, he blurted out the question that was foremost in his mind. “If you didn’t love her, why did you stay with her?”

“Because I’m a coward,” Tom muttered miserably. “I wanted _her_ to break up with _me_ , I wanted…” His voice trailed off and sitting up, he gave Booker a sad smile. “It’s obvious by the look on your face that you feel differently about me now. Thanks for all your help but I think it’s best that I leave.”

When Booker did not answer, Tom stood up and pulling his battered bag from the closet, he started packing his clothes. The sound of drawers opening and closing pulled Booker from his fugue-like state and shaking his head, he stared at Tom in bewilderment. “What are you doing?”

Tom gazed back in surprise. “I just told you, I’m leaving and once I’ve gone, you can—” 

Booker stood up and placing a hand on Tom’s arm, he gripped it tightly. “Do you love me?” he asked in a voice that was a little too loud, even to his own ears.

Taken aback by the question, Tom did not have time to answer in any other way except honestly. “Of _course_ I do. Jesus Dennis, why would you doubt that? I’m doing this for _you_ , I’m setting you free from all this bullshit because you don’t deserve it. I’m a fuck up. I know it, you know it and soon the rest of Los Angeles is going to know it. There’s no sugar coating what is going to happen to me, I’m going to prison and…”

As Tom continued his speech, Booker studied him as though for the first time. If Tom went to prison, his young, slim body and beautifully hypnotic face would make him stand out in a world filled with depraved, sex starved men. He would become the sacrificial lamb to the slaughter and he would not stand a chance against their advances. 

He would be devoured.

His stomach churned and hot bile rose in his throat. No matter what Tom had done or how he had reacted to Amy’s death, he loved him more than he had ever loved another human being and it was then that he formulated his plan. What he was plotting to do went against everything he stood for and if it ever came to light that he was responsible, he would lose his job, but he had no choice. He needed a way to save Tom because they were rapidly running out of time and therefore, he was willing to take the risk.

Relieved that he had finally come to a decision, he brushed his lips over Tom’s moving mouth. “I don’t give a damn what you think,” he murmured against the soft flesh. “You love me, I love you, end of story. So shut the fuck up and unpack your things, you’re staying.”

“Dennis…” Tom began but when he saw the devotion and understanding in his lover’s eyes, his lips tilted into a tender smile. “You’re more screwed up than I am. How can I ever thank—”

“I don’t want your thanks,” Booker whispered softly. “I just want you in my life.”

Wrapping his arms around Booker’s waist, Tom rested his head on his lover’s broad shoulder and closed his eyes. Although he knew his life was doomed, it was a little easier to deal with knowing that Dennis really was by his side.

**

_**Wednesday October 25th 1989 (5.45 a.m.)** _

Having spent the last two nights slowly reacquainting himself with every inch of his lover’s toned body, the shrill ring of the telephone pulled Booker from the first deep sleep he had managed in days and disentangling himself from Tom’s limbs, he fell from the bed in a daze and stumbling into the living room, he snatched up the receiver. “Booker.”

The loud, furious voice of his Captain sounded down the phone. “Hanson’s tapes were stolen from the evidence room and you’d better tell me you had _nothing_ to do with their disappearance or I swear to Almighty God I’ll—”

“Whoa, Cap’n slow down,” Booker replied hurriedly. “Of _course_ I didn’t have anything to do with it. Give me half an hour and I’ll meet you at the station. I’m sure they’ve just been misplaced.”

“They’d better have been misplaced or someone’s ass in on the line!” Captain Hollis screamed and the line went dead.

A slow, knowing smile played over Booker’s lips as he placed the receiver back on the cradle. He was going to have to give an Oscar worthy performance and convince his Captain that he had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the disappearance of the most vital piece of evidence in Tom’s case, otherwise, he was screwed.


	21. Love Lies Bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Wednesday October 25th 1989 (5.45 a.m.)_
> 
> _Having spent the last two nights slowly reacquainting himself with every inch of his lover’s toned body, the shrill ring of the telephone pulled Booker from the first deep sleep he had managed in days and disentangling himself from Tom’s limbs, he fell from the bed in a daze and stumbling into the living room, he snatched up the receiver. “Booker.”_
> 
> _The loud, furious voice of his Captain sounded down the phone. “Hanson’s tapes were stolen from the evidence room and you’d better tell me you had nothing to do with their disappearance or I swear to Almighty God I’ll—”_
> 
> _“Whoa, Cap’n slow down,” Booker replied hurriedly. “Of course I didn’t have anything to do with it. Give me half an hour and I’ll meet you at the station. I’m sure they’ve just been misplaced.”_
> 
> _“They’d better have been misplaced or someone’s ass in on the line!” Captain Hollis screamed and the line went dead._
> 
> _A slow, knowing smile played over Booker’s lips as he placed the receiver back on the cradle. He was going to have to give an Oscar worthy performance and convince his Captain that he had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance of the most vital piece of evidence in Tom’s case, otherwise, he was screwed._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170025823/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday October 25th 1989 (7.03 a.m.)** _

Having spent the last forty-five minutes enduring an angry and somewhat thunderous interrogation from his Captain about the missing evidence tapes, Booker emerged from his superior’s office feeling mentally exhausted. But he had kept his cool and played the part of a shocked and aggrieved officer until finally, after much yelling and accusatory stares, his boss dismissed him with a weak apology of, “Don’t take it personally Booker, I had to check.”

He was no sooner out the door when Harry seemingly appeared out of nowhere and grabbed him by the arm. His guilt was beginning to eat him up inside and he was in no mood for a second round of _Booker must have done it_ , but he managed to control his temper when Ioki hauled him into the locker room and growled at him in a low voice. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Pulling his arm away, he gave Harry an impassive look. “I don’t know what you’re implying Ioki, but I had _nothing_ to do with those missing tapes.”

But Ioki knew the depths of Booker’s love for Tom and taking a step closer, he fixed his gaze boldly on his friend. “Swear to me,” he demanded softly. “Swear to me on your grandmother’s grave that you didn’t destroy those tapes.”

A cold chill ran down the entire length of Booker’s spine. Ioki had picked the one request where he would feel honor bound to tell the truth, and realizing his body language would eventually give him away, he let out a defeated sigh. “Okay, I did it,” he whispered in a conspiratorial hiss. “But I was trying to keep you out of it. The less you know the better.”

Raking his hands through his hair, Harry began to pace the floor in agitation. “Jesus Christ Booker, I can’t believe you would be so stupid.”

The insult prickled Booker’s skin and he glared at his friend with blazing eyes. “I did what I had to do,” he justified through gritted teeth. “The tapes are gone and Tom’s safe. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing for someone _you_ loved.”

A sad smile played over Harry’s lips. “That’s where you and I are _very_ different Dennis. If I really loved someone, I would not add to their guilt by being a perpetrator of an unlawful act committed on their behalf. How do you think Tom’s going to feel when he finds out?”

The memory of Tom’s agonized voice when he spoke about going to prison echoed loudly in Booker’s mind and throwing back his shoulders, he gave Harry a confident stare. “He’s going to thank me.”

**

_**Wednesday October 25th 1989 (6.17 p.m.)** _

Kicking his apartment door closed with his foot, Booker went over to the kitchen and placed a bottle of whiskey and several bags of take-out on the counter. Spying Tom sitting on the couch watching television, he walked up behind him and bending over, he lovingly kissed the top of his head. "Hey beautiful, did you miss me? I picked up some Chinese food from that place on the corner you like."

When he received no acknowledgment, he moved around so he was standing in front of his lover, effectively blocking his view of the TV. “Hey,” he muttered in annoyance, “I’m talking to you.”

Tom lifted his head and glared up at Booker with dark, angry eyes. “I had a phone call today from Gareth Williams,” he advised in a stony voice. “Apparently _someone_ stole the evidence tapes the cops were going to use against me.” 

Ignoring the nagging doubt that Ioki had instilled in him, Booker casually shrugged his shoulders. “I had no choice Tommy, it was the only way to keep you out of prison.” 

With an infuriated cry, Tom jumped to his feet and began to pace up and down the narrow strip of flooring between the couch and the coffee table. “Why would you do that?” he asked in a high, agitated voice. “I didn't _ask_ you to steal the tapes! Jesus Christ Dennis, what the hell were you thinking? This is _my_ life, not yours, you had no fucking right to interfere!”

A feeling of déjà vu washed over Booker. Harry had asked him the same question and now he was starting to have serious doubts about his decision. But he was too stubborn and proud to admit he _might_ have made a mistake and pushing his lower lip into a sulky pout, he gazed back moodily. “I guess I _wasn't_ thinking ‘cause I assumed you’d at least thank me for putting my job on the line for you… _AGAIN_.” he replied, making sure the emphasis on the last word was not lost on Tom.

When Tom continued to glare at him, he let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay, maybe I should have talked to you about it, but I just wanted to protect—”

“WHEN WILL YOU GET IT THROUGH YOUR FAT HEAD THAT I DON’T _NEED_ PROTECTING!” Tom screamed back, his face flaming crimson with anger. 

“Really?” Booker shot back with a snort and when Tom rolled his eyes, his fury burst forth, sending venomous insults spewing from his curled lips. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me you asshole! If it weren't for me, you’d still be some two-bit whore lying in a rat-infested apartment with a needle sticking out of your arm. So don’t tell me you don’t need fucking protecting because you do!”

With a primordial yell, Tom launched himself at Booker and grabbing hold of his jacket, he slammed him up against the wall. “FUCK YOU!” he shrieked hysterically into his lover’s face. “YOU'RE THE FUCKING ASSHOLE YOU INTERFERRING PRICK!”

Booker violently shoved Tom in the chest, sending him staggering backwards. “You’d better calm down or I’ll put you down,” he warned in a low, threatening voice.

Tom stared back with cocky bravado. “Yeah? Try it and I’ll knock your fucking head off.”

With a mocking laugh, Booker eyed his opponent with an amused smile. “Dream on little man, the last time we fought I…”

With lightning speed, Tom slammed his fist into Booker’s jaw, the force spinning his lover's head to the side. A rush of air escaped from between Dennis' lips and he stumbled sideways, hitting the kitchen counter. Dirty dishes smashed to the floor and with a shout, he quickly regained his balance and lunged at his attacker with flying fists. Both men rained down heavy, vicious blows, each punch adding another contusion to their already damaged flesh. The mutual attack was just as savage in its ferocity as their previous fight had been, with neither man holding back, but this time, their fury did not morph into a heated passion. Instead, it remained brutal right up to the very end when Booker eventually managed to grasp hold of Tom's flailing arms and with a grunt, he kicked his legs out from under him and threw him forcefully to the floor. 

With a sickening crack, Tom’s head smashed against the corner of the coffee table. Pain flared in his head and moaning loudly, his eyes rolled back and he slumped over onto his side as blood began to flow from the wound.

“Jesus!” Booker exclaimed in a panicked voice and dropping to his knees, he placed his palm against Tom’s pale cheek. “Tommy! Open your eyes! Tommy! Can you hear me? Open your eyes baby, _please_ open your eyes!”

Several agonizingly long seconds passed before Tom’s eyes fluttered open. When he felt Booker’s hand against his cheek, he angrily slapped it away and with a groan, he grasped the back of his head and slowly staggered to his feet.

Booker stood up, the distress of Tom’s injury sending tremors of shock through his aching body and reaching out a shaky hand, he gently grasped his lover’s forearm. “Tommy I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly. “I didn’t mean—”

Tom recoiled from the touch. “Keep your fucking hands off me,” he warned through bloody teeth.

Booker’s expression instantly changed from one of concern to being majorly pissed off. “You know what Hanson?” he spat. “I’m tired of you treating me like shit.”

A wave of nausea blurred Tom’s vision and he struggled to remain standing as he held his hand over his bloody wound. “Yeah?” he retorted in a trembling voice, the sound of his heavy breathing echoing throughout the apartment. “Well I’m tired of you treating me like a fucking child.”

The two men stood glaring at each other, their chests heaving from the exertion of the fight until Tom eventually turned away and lurching into the bathroom, he slammed the door closed with a wall-shaking bang.

With a heavy sigh, Booker glanced at the bathroom door before deciding Tom needed time to cool off. Walking into the kitchen, he ignored the Chinese food and went straight for the whiskey. He poured himself a large measure and taking a gulp, he closed his eyes as a warm, calming heat radiated down his throat and into his chest. Opening his eyes, he placed his glass down on the counter and lifting his t-shirt, he lightly trailed his fingertips over his bruised ribs. He was sore, mind numbingly exhausted and depressed. The day had not ended as he had planned; he had expected Tom to be grateful for saving him from a prison term, not resentful because he had once again, taken control of his life. But as the whiskey slowly sedated his anger, the realization dawned on him that he _did_ treat Tom like a child. Instead of discussing his plan and asking him if he was in fact, comfortable with him breaking the law to save his ass, he had, in his usual pig-headed way, jumped straight in without taking Tom’s feelings into consideration. It was a character flaw he was well aware of, but one he struggled to rectify. He was, and always had been, an _act now, think later_ kind of guy, which was fine if the consequences only affected him, but this time, they affected Tom too and he wished he could turn back the clock and make everything right between them.

Draining his glass, he once again cast his eye at the bathroom door. He owed Tom an apology and all he could hope was that his lover would accept it and they could move forward. Putting down his empty glass, he walked over to the bathroom and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Tommy, we need to talk.”

When he received no answer, he turned the handle and pushed open the door. Tom sat on the toilet with his head bowed forward, his blood stained hands covering his face. Clumps of blood matted his hair, the thick flowing liquid continuing a trail down his neck and soaking into the soft material of his t-shirt, creating a crimson stain around the collar. Bloody handprints tarnished the white tiled walls and a splattering of vomit coated the porcelain hand basin. To Booker, it was a scene from a horror movie, made even more chilling by its reality and his eyes grew wide as they roved over the horrifying sight before him.

With an anguished cry, he rushed forward and dropped to his knees in front of his lover. “Oh God Tommy, I’m _so_ sorry!” he exclaimed in a shaky voice. “You need a doctor, I’m calling an ambulance.” 

Tom lifted his head, revealing a ghostly pale face and bloodshot eyes. “What I need is for you to leave me alone,” he muttered, before lowering his head again.

Ignoring Tom’s request, Booker stood up and hurried back into the living room. Snatching up the phone's receiver, he dialed 911. Never before had he physically hurt a lover the way he had hurt Tom and he felt sick to his stomach in the knowledge that he was capable of causing such a grievous injury to someone he purportedly loved. When a female voice sounded down the line, he hastily gave her the details and hung up. Returning to the bathroom, he knelt on the floor and placed a hand on Tom’s back. “Please forgive me baby,” he whispered, as tears of shame and regret spilled from his eyes.

But Tom remained stubbornly silent, lost in the misery of his own being until darkness enveloped him and losing consciousness, he slid off the toilet and into Booker’s waiting arms.


	22. Bloody, Broken and Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: The two men stood glaring at each other, their chests heaving from the exertion of the fight until Tom eventually turned away and lurching into the bathroom, he slammed the door closed with a wall-shaking bang._
> 
> _With a heavy sigh, Booker glanced at the bathroom door before deciding Tom needed time to cool off. Walking into the kitchen, he ignored the Chinese food and went straight for the whiskey. He poured himself a large measure and taking a gulp, he closed his eyes as a warm, calming heat radiated down his throat and into his chest. Opening his eyes, he placed his glass down on the counter and lifting his t-shirt, he lightly trailed his fingertips over his bruised ribs. He was sore, mind numbingly exhausted and depressed. The day had not ended as he had planned; he had expected Tom to be grateful for saving him from a prison term, not resentful because he had once again, taken control of his life. But as the whiskey slowly sedated his anger, the realization dawned on him that he did treat Tom like a child. Instead of discussing his plan and asking him if he was in fact, comfortable with him breaking the law to save his ass, he had, in his usual pig-headed way, jumped straight in without taking Tom’s feelings into consideration. It was a character flaw he was well aware of, but one he struggled to rectify. He was, and always had been, an act now, think later kind of guy, which was fine if the consequences only affected him, but this time, they affected Tom too and he wished he could turn back the clock and make everything right between them._
> 
> _Draining his glass, he once again cast his eye at the bathroom door. He owed Tom an apology and all he could hope was that his lover would accept it and they could move forward. Putting down his empty glass, he walked over to the bathroom and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Tommy, we need to talk.”_
> 
> _When he received no answer, he turned the handle and pushed open the door. Tom sat on the toilet with his head bowed forward, his blood stained hands covering his face. Clumps of blood matted his hair, the thick flowing liquid continuing a trail down his neck and soaking into the soft material of his t-shirt, creating a crimson stain around the collar. Bloody handprints tarnished the white tiled walls and a splattering of vomit coated the porcelain hand basin. To Booker, it was a scene from a horror movie, made even more chilling by its reality and his eyes grew wide as they roved over the horrifying sight before him._
> 
> _With an anguished cry, he rushed forward and dropped to his knees in front of his lover. “Oh God Tommy, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed in a shaky voice. “You need a doctor, I’m calling an ambulance.”_
> 
> _Tom lifted his head, revealing a ghostly pale face and bloodshot eyes. “What I need is for you to leave me alone,” he muttered, before lowering his head again._
> 
> _Ignoring Tom’s request, Booker stood up and hurried back into the living room. Snatching up the phone receiver, he dialed 911. Never before had he physically hurt a lover the way he had hurt Tom and he felt sick to his stomach in the knowledge that he was capable of causing such a grievous injury to someone he purportedly loved. When a female voice sounded down the line, he hastily gave her the details and hung up. Returning to the bathroom, he knelt on the floor and placed a hand on Tom’s back. “Please forgive me baby,” he whispered, as tears of shame and regret spilled from his eyes._
> 
> _But Tom remained stubbornly silent, lost in the misery of his own being until darkness enveloped him and losing consciousness, he slid off the toilet and into Booker’s waiting arms._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35847655321/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday October 25th 1989 (7.38 p.m.)** _

Tom sat on the bathroom floor as a young female paramedic carefully checked the wound on the back of his head. He looked up and saw Booker standing in the doorway, nervously chewing on the skin around his thumbnail and he quickly lowered his gaze. He had caught a glimpse of remorse in the dark haired officer’s eyes, but he was too weary and upset to offer him any words of comfort. The phrase _two-bit whore_ continued to echo throughout his throbbing head, constantly reminding him of how Booker _really_ saw him. He wasn’t his lover, he was a prostitute paid with room and board, and the realization cut through his heart like a razor blade. After living so long with nothing but emptiness inside him, he had finally found the courage to open his heart to someone, only to have it stomped on in the cruelest of ways. Booker did not love him; he had made that perfectly clear with the callousness of his words. But what his dazed mind did not understand was why the dark haired officer had put his job on the line for him if he was nothing more than a sex toy. It made no sense but he no longer cared; all he wanted to do was close his eyes and slip into a world of oblivion.

When something wet touched his cheek, he instinctively drew away and looking up, he realized the paramedic was gently cleaning the blood from his face with a washcloth. “You really should go to the hospital and get that head wound checked out,” the young woman advised him in a soft voice.

He attempted to give a reassuring smile but his eyes misted with tears and he quickly lowered his head in shame. “I’m okay,” he mumbled into his chest.

Getting slowly to her feet, the paramedic turned her attention to Booker. “You mentioned that he blacked out,” she stated in a cold voice. “How long was he unconscious?”

Booker’s eyes darted nervously from Tom to the woman. “Um, not long, maybe twenty seconds.”

The woman squatted back down and laid a gentle hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Is there somewhere safe you can spend the night?”

The realization that the woman perceived him as a battered spouse was too much for Tom and tears spilled from his tortured eyes, creating a wet trail down his pale cheeks. The sight was so heartbreaking, all Booker wanted to do was wrap his arms around him and hold him tight. But when he took a step forward, the male paramedic immediately intercepted him. “I think you’ve done enough.”

Booker’s hands began to shake as he struggled to control his anger. The two paramedics had automatically labeled him an abuser without taking the time to ask him _his_ side of the story. The fight had been fair, he had the bruises to prove it and Tom’s head wound was the result of an accident. But in the eyes of the world, he was to blame and suddenly, he was tired of being everyone’s whipping boy. Since Tom had come into his life, he had dealt with nothing but pain and anguish and he was physically and emotionally exhausted. All he wanted was his old life back.

Ignoring the male paramedic, he spoke to the young woman. “There’s a friend he can stay with, I’ll make the call.”

Tom lifted his tear-stained face and stared at Booker open-mouthed. “You’re kicking me out?”

Booker refused to meet Tom’s devastated gaze. “It’s for the best,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Harry will take—”

“ _Harry?”_ Tom exclaimed in disbelief. “Harry _hates_ me!”

The two paramedics exchanged worried glances. “Maybe we should call the cops,” the woman suggested to her partner.

“ _I’M_ A COP!” Booker yelled and raking his fingers through his hair, he raised his eyes to the ceiling and grunted in frustration. “Jesus Christ, we had a fight! Why are you making me out to be the villain?”

“I’m not going to Harry’s,” Tom interjected moodily. “I’d rather sleep on a park bench.”

Spinning around, Booker completely lost his temper. “FINE! SLEEP ON A FUCKING PARK BENCH!” he screamed into Tom’s startled face. “I’M DONE WITH YOU AND ALL YOUR FUCKING BULLSHIT!”

The male paramedic reached down and took Tom by the arm. “C’mon, we’re taking you to the hospital and then you can figure out where you’re going from there.”

Too dazed by Booker’s verbal attack to refuse, Tom allowed the two EMTs to help him to his feet. Turning to Booker, he stifled a sob. “I _loved_ you,” he whispered in a teary voice.

“Yeah?” Booker shot back angrily. “I guess you won’t be making that mistake again,” and turning away, he stormed into his bedroom and slammed the door closed with a bang.

**

_**Wednesday October 25th 1989 (9.18 p.m.)** _

The sound of the busy E.R. drifted in through the curtain of the small cubicle. Tom sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his dark eyes cast gloomily at the floor as he waited for a doctor to sign his discharge. He was in pain, emotionally exhausted and with no place to call home; his world was once again slowly unraveling and he had no one to blame except himself. Deep in his soul, he knew Dennis had only stolen the tapes to protect him, but it still hurt to know that his lover considered him both emotionally and physically ill equipped to deal with his own problems. After all, he had encountered more suffering and heartache in the last twenty months than most people experienced in a lifetime… he was a professional survivor.

The curtain drew back and he gazed up expectantly, but when he saw Harry standing in front of him looking ill at ease, his eyebrows rose in question. “What the hell are you doing here?”

A forced smile played over Ioki’s lips. “Nice to see you too Hanson,” he replied in a terse voice, “always a pleasure.”

Tom’s expression softened somewhat, but his eyes remained wary. “I doubt that,” he muttered sadly. “You don’t have to pretend Harry, I know you hate me. So again I ask, what are you doing here?”

Harry hesitated for a moment before pulling up a chair and sitting down. He studied Tom’s bruised face for several moments and letting out a sigh, he explained his feelings. “I don’t hate you Hanson… not anymore. I guess I pity—”

“ _Pity?_ ” Tom questioned in a high, incredulous voice. “You _pity_ me? Since when did I ever ask for your fucking pity? How dare you come in here and—”

“I came because Booker asked me to,” Harry interrupted, his narrow eyes flashing angrily. “Don’t make me regret it by acting like a self righteous asshole.”

All of Tom’s anger instantly drained away and he gazed back at Harry with large, doubting eyes. “ _Dennis_ asked you to come here?” he asked disbelievingly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why would he do that? He hates me, he thinks I’m a whore.”

Harry shook his head slowly back and forth. “He doesn’t hate you Tom… he _loves_ you. Dennis can be hotheaded at times and he says things in anger that he’ll regret when he’s had time to cool off and reevaluate the situation. But he does think you need some time apart and so I’m offering you a place to stay until the two of you can work things out.”

The emotion of the night’s events once again took their toll on Tom and as he gazed into Harry’s tranquil face, a single tear trickled down his cheek. “Why would you do that?” he whispered. “Why would you help me?”

Ioki shrugged his shoulders and gave Tom a half smile. “Because Dennis is my friend… my _best_ friend and I want to see him happy.” He paused for a moment before adding, “And he won’t be happy unless he knows you’re safe.”

Tom chewed anxiously on his lower lip. Although he was grateful to Harry, he felt uncomfortable about accepting his offer. They were no longer friends; in fact, he had no idea _what_ they were. What did you call a man who had suffered a serious gunshot wound because of _your_ negligence? Should he consider him an enemy, an acquaintance, or a stranger? Could he trust him, or was this just a well thought out plan to get him in his house so he could exact revenge? The scenarios were endless and Tom’s aching head whirled in confusion. But deep inside his mind, there was a little voice telling him that no matter what had transpired over the last few hours, Dennis would _never_ do anything to hurt him intentionally. The dark haired officer had proven himself time and time again as a trusted friend and even if their sexual relationship was now over, he knew he could always count on him when he needed to.

Wiping the lone tear from his cheek, he gave Harry a watery smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it and I promise it’ll only be for a few days. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to live temporarily until…” His voice drifted off and he left the remainder of the sentence unspoken.

Harry returned a small smile. Although he was not happy at the thought of Tom living with him, he was willing to do it for Booker, and all he could hope was that the two men settled their differences and reunited before Tom’s hearing. He was surprised to hear the desolation in Hanson’s voice when he spoke about finding somewhere temporary to live until his court appearance. His preliminary hearing was in two weeks time and now that the tapes had disappeared, there was no evidence tying him to any drug activity and the police would have to dismiss the charge. That left the negligent homicide charge and that allegation had always been sketchy. Once again, there was no proof that Tom had been careless in his duty as a police officer and it was likely the case against him would also be dismissed. But for Harry, it was a double-edged sword. He felt he was justified to some recompense for the months of rehabilitation he had endured after the shooting, and he also considered Penhall to be the forgotten party throughout the eight long months since that fateful night in the warehouse. But he cared deeply for Booker as a friend and he knew if Tom _did_ go to prison, his partner would have trouble coming to terms with the fact. Dennis was a good man and he did not want to see him endure any unnecessary heartache, even if it gave him his own peace of mind.

Getting up from his seat, he managed a more genuine smile. “You can stay as long as you want,” he advised. “Now, let’s find a doctor and get you out of here.”

**

_**Thursday October 26th 1989 (3.08 a.m.)** _

Standing in the open doorway of Harry’s bedroom, Tom stared down at his sleeping form. He had lain awake on the couch, staring up at the living room ceiling whilst he contemplated his choices. To everyone else, it seemed a simple decision. He would front up at the court hearing and stand silently whilst a judge made a determination that would ultimately, affect his life forever. However, he was not prepared to put his future in the hands of another; it was his life and he deserved a chance to turn it around.

He would prove himself worthy.

Walking into the bedroom, he stopped beside the bed and laying a hand on Ioki’s shoulder, he gave it a gentle shake. “Harry.”

Harry’s eyes flew open and he gasped in surprise. “ _Hanson?_ Jesus Christ! What are you doing in my bedroom?”

A nervous smile played over Tom’s lips. “Can we talk?”

Peering at his bedside clock, Harry rubbed a hand over his bleary eyes. “At three in the morning?” 

“Sorry,” Tom apologized quietly. “I couldn’t sleep and I really need to ask you a favor.”

Sitting up in bed, Harry turned on the overhead light and gave Tom a measured look. “Do you _really_ think after everything that's happened you're deserving of a favor?” he asked in a sleepy voice.

Tom let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m not asking you to help _me_ , I want you to help Booker.”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together. “Help Booker?” he queried in surprise. “Help him how?”

Taking a deep breath, Tom gave a beseeching look. “Just promise me you’ll look out for him.”

A small laugh sounded from between Harry’s lips. “I’m pretty certain Booker can take care of himself,” he replied with a smile. “What’s this all about, you’re not making any sense.”

Tom’s expression became impassive. “Just promise me.”

Desperate to get back to sleep, Harry turned off the light. “Sure Hanson, whatever you want,” he chuckled.

Tom remained standing for several seconds longer before turning away and exiting the bedroom. He knew he could rely on Harry to do as he asked and in the morning, he would make the phone call that would ultimately alter the course of his life and how it panned out, would then be in the hands of the universe. 

But whatever the outcome, his mind would finally be at peace.


	23. Burying the Hatchet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Thursday October 26th 1989 (3.08 a.m.)_
> 
> _Standing in the open doorway of Harry’s bedroom, Tom stared down at his sleeping form. He had lain awake on the couch, staring up at the living room ceiling whilst he contemplated his choices. To everyone else, it seemed a simple decision. He would front up at the court hearing and stand silently whilst a judge made a determination that would ultimately, affect his life forever. However, he was not prepared to put his future in the hands of another; it was his life and he deserved a chance to turn it around._
> 
> _He would prove himself worthy._
> 
> _Walking into the bedroom, he stopped beside the bed and laying a hand on Ioki’s shoulder, he gave it a gentle shake. “Harry.”_
> 
> _Harry’s eyes flew open and he gasped in surprise. “Hanson? Jesus Christ! What are you doing in my bedroom?”_
> 
> _A nervous smile played over Tom’s lips. “Can we talk?”_
> 
> _Peering at his bedside clock, Harry rubbed a hand over his bleary eyes. “At three in the morning?”_
> 
> _“Sorry,” Tom apologized quietly. “I couldn’t sleep and I really need to ask you a favor.”_
> 
> _Sitting up in bed, Harry turned on the overhead light and gave Tom a measured look. “Do you really think after everything that's happened you're deserving of a favor?” he asked in a sleepy voice._
> 
> _Tom let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m not asking you to help me, I want you to help Booker.”_
> 
> _Harry’s eyebrows knitted together. “Help Booker?” he queried in surprise. “Help him how?”_
> 
> _Taking a deep breath, Tom gave a beseeching look. “Just promise me you’ll look out for him.”_
> 
> _A small laugh sounded from between Harry’s lips. “I’m pretty certain Booker can take care of himself,” he replied with a smile. “What’s this all about, you’re not making any sense.”_
> 
> _Tom’s expression became impassive. “Just promise me.”_
> 
> _Desperate to get back to sleep, Harry turned off the light. “Sure Hanson, whatever you want,” he chuckled._
> 
> _Tom remained standing for several seconds longer before turning away and exiting the bedroom. He knew he could rely on Harry to do as he asked and in the morning, he would make the phone call that would ultimately alter the course of his life and how it panned out, would then be in the hands of the universe._
> 
> _But whatever the outcome, his mind would finally be at peace._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35809565872/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday November 1st 1989 (11.42 a.m.)** _

Since moving into his new home, Tom found the days dragged by in a slow, boring litany that consisted of eating, sleeping and watching TV. He rarely saw Harry, who was working a case with Booker but when he did, the conversation was awkward and prone to long periods of silence. He felt like an interloper, a chaotic intruder who had forcefully inserted himself into Harry’s well-organized, structured life. He was not deserving of such kindness and the realization only added to his feelings of inadequacy. Booker had been right, without an intervention he most likely _would_ still be a drug-addicted whore living in a rat-infested apartment. Or worse case scenario, he could be dead.

However, whenever the conscious recognition of how close he came to death crossed his mind, he did not feel a bone chilling relief that he had made it through his addiction alive; instead, he felt a twinge of regret because a tiny part of him wished he _had_ died with a needle sticking out of his arm. His thoughts weren’t suicidal, now that he was sober, he wanted to live, but if he had died, it would not have been the worst thing to happen because he would have paid his restitution for taking the life of his best friend. It would have been the proverbial eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, the universe would have restored balance, and he would have been free.

But he was not free, he was forced to live with the pain and regret for the rest of his life and sometimes, the reality of it overwhelmed him. It was only when he looked towards the future that he was able to relax, knowing that he would one day make it right and when that day occurred, Penhall would forgive him.

A gentle tapping at the door pulled him from a light doze and staggering up from the couch, he ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. Glancing up at the wall clock, he wondered who it could be. Harry was in bed, having arrived home just before dawn and in the week he had been living at the apartment, no one had visited. 

Walking warily over to the door, he opened it on its chain. Booker stood in the corridor looking as though he had not slept in days. Dark circles ringed his eyes and his normally tanned face was pale and drawn. “Hey Tommy, can I come in?” he asked in a soft, hopeful voice, his expression a picture of wretchedness. 

Hanson hesitated for a moment before releasing the chain and stepping back from the door, he allowed his lover entrance into the small apartment. Pushing the door closed, he turned and faced the man who, despite their argument, still occupied his every waking thought and flooded his dreams with unfulfilled fantasies. The two men stood in awkward silence for several seconds before Booker spoke again, this time, his voice sounding strained. “You know it was an accident, right? I would never have done anything to hurt you.” 

Tom ran his fingers self-consciously over the scab that had formed over the wound on the back of his head. He knew it had been an accident but Booker’s hurtful words remained burned into his soul and lowering his eyes, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. “Yeah, I know,” he mumbled into his chest, “it’s just…” Lifting his head, he gazed miserably into Booker’s eyes. “Every time we fight, you call me a whore and each time it stings just a little bit more than the last. It stings because I love you so much and I know that’s how you’ll always see me, as a drug addicted, filthy slut who ruined his life.”

Tears welled in Booker’s eyes and moving forward, he attempted to pull Tom towards him, but Hanson wrapped his arms protectively around his torso and stepped away. “Don’t,” he muttered despondently. “A hug’s not gonna fix it, not this time.”

“Then what?” Booker implored in a high, desperate voice. “What can I do to prove to you that I love you Tommy and I want you to come home. I’m sorry I stole the tapes, I’m sorry I didn’t trust you enough to let you make your own decisions, but I was frantic at the thought of you going to prison. I did it for you! Can’t you see that? I did it for you and I did it for us!”

Tom’s lower lip pushed into a soft pout. “And the next time we have a fight, are you gonna throw my past back in my face?” he asked in a moody voice. “Because you’d better get used to the idea that I’m not perfect. I’ve done things I’m not proud of and I’ve let men do things to me that—”

“Don’t,” Booker reacted in a horrified voice. “I don’t want to know what they did to you.”

Frowning, Tom tilted his head on one side and studied Booker’s face with interest. “Why not? What they did to me is a part of who I am. Does it repulse you to know I let men fuck me for drugs and mon—”

“STOP!” Booker yelled and turning away, he began to pace up and down the floor of the small room, his hands raking through his dark hair in agitation. “Jesus Tommy, how can you speak about it so matter-of-factly? They took advantage of you! They used you as a sex toy! Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

Anger clouded Tom’s face and he glared back defiantly as his hands balled into tight fists. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but you’ve got it only half right,” he muttered in a flat voice. “ _I_ used _them_ just as much as _they_ used _me_. I got all the drugs I wanted _and_ I got off on it. The sex was what kept me alive, there was no intimacy, it was just fucking and I liked it.”

A look of horror passed over Booker’s face and he stared back at Tom in disbelief. It had never occurred to him that he might have enjoyed having sex with a multitude of different men. His stomach churned at the thought of the dozens of men who had violated his beautiful Tommy and he swallowed down the hot acid that rose from within his gut. The man he loved appeared to be vanishing right before his eyes and the desperate, damaged man he had tried to save from the horrors of drugs and prostitution had returned in his place. He was reliving his nightmare except this time, he did not know if he had the strength or the fortitude, to bring the real Tom Hanson back again.

Stepping forward, he grabbed hold of Tom’s wrist and squeezed it tight. “Are you telling me you _liked_ being a whore?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Tom tried to pull away but Booker’s grasp was too tight. Pain flared through his wrist but he refused to show any outward sign of discomfort and staring back at Booker, he spoke in a low, steady voice. “I’m telling you what you already think,” he replied calmly. “You already see me as a whore so I’m just making it easier for you to turn around, walk out the door and forget I ever existed. I’m giving you a guilt free pass.”

Booker’s eyes blinked rapidly in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t want to end this relationship, I want to be with you forever.”

A slow, sad smile played over Tom’s lips. “Forever’s a long time Dennis. Everything I just said, about enjoying the fucking and using those men so I could get drugs, that’s how _you_ really see me isn’t it? You don’t look at me and think I lost my way for a while, you look at me and see a drug-addicted, manipulative whore who played men to get what he wanted. I’m sorry Dennis, but I can’t be in a relationship with someone who will never really trust me. I _know_ you love me, I can see it in your eyes, but I don’t think it’s enough. You’ll always have doubts about me and eventually, those doubts will tear us apart because let’s face it, I’ll never be good enough.”

A cold chill ran down Booker’s spine and he gaped back at Tom incredulously. Everything his lover had said was true, he had not been able to let go of Tom’s transgressions and deep inside his psyche, he _did_ still think of him as a drug-addicted whore. The insults had tumbled so easily from his lips when they had been fighting and at the time, he had not even registered what he was saying. But Tom had, Tom had heard every single word and he felt sick knowing that he could have been so cruel and insensitive towards the man he loved. 

Loosening his grip, he reached up and cupped Tom’s cheek in the palm of his hand. “Please baby,” he whispered, his dark eyes begging for forgiveness. “I’m _so_ sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel worthless, I just… I just wanted to protect you and I didn’t realize all I was doing was hurting you. You know me, I’m a hot head and I say things in the heat of the moment. I don’t think you’re a whore, I _love_ you, I’ve always loved you and no matter what, I’ll always be by your side.”

Before Tom could speak, Harry appeared from the bedroom, his eyes bleary with sleep and his hair sticking up in soft peaks around his head. 

“Harry,” Tom muttered in surprise. “I’m sorry, did we wake you?”

Harry’s eyes flitted from Tom to Dennis and back again and letting out a weary sigh, he sat on the arm of the couch and studied the two men collectively. “You’re both idiots.”

Hanson and Booker exchanged confused glances. “You heard me,” Harry continued and standing up, he walked across the room and laid a hand on each man’s shoulder. “You obviously love each other but you fight like little children. Forgive and forget already, or split up, or do whatever, but for fuck’s sake, stop arguing in my living room when I’m trying to sleep!”

Booker’s lips twitched at the edges and turning his gaze back to Tom, he took hold of his hand and gave the fingers a squeeze. “I don’t want to lose you Tommy,” he murmured, “and I’m sorry for all the horrible things I said. I love you baby, can’t you please forgive me?”

Tom unknowingly began chewing on his lower lip, a sure sign to both Booker and Ioki that he was deep in thought. Seconds turned into minutes and Booker began to lose hope that Tom would forgive him. But just as he was about to walk away, he felt gentle fingers squeezing his own.

“Okay,” Tom murmured in a barely audible voice, “I forgive you.”

Pure happiness shone from Booker’s dark eyes, but he kept his emotions in check. “Does that mean you’ll come home?”

The corner of Tom’s mouth tilted upwards in his signature lilting smile. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Thank God,” Ioki sighed, but he could not hide the genuine smile that lit up his face. “See yourselves out fellas, I’m going back to bed.”

When the bedroom door closed with a bang, Booker ran his fingers through Tom’s unruly locks. “God I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his dark eyes boring deep into Tom’s soul with the intensity of their love.

Tom leaned forward and wrapping his arms around his lover’s waist, he rested his head on his broad shoulder and snuggled in close. “I’ve missed you too,” he murmured softly. 

Booker kissed the top of Tom’s head. “C’mon baby, let’s go home.”

**

_**Wednesday November 1st 1989 (10.18 p.m.)** _

Tom lay in Booker’s arms listening to the steady, hypnotic rhythm of his breathing as he slept peacefully beside him. They had agreed to ease back into their relationship and so they had spent the day talking and watching television. When they had finally climbed into bed, Booker had attempted to initiate contact but Tom had remained stubbornly resolute and although disappointed, his lover had not pushed the point. Now, twenty minutes later, Booker lay softly snoring next to him, lost in the fantasies of his dreams. But for Tom, it was not so easy to put the last week of his life behind him. He had made a monumental decision about his future only days before and he knew that when Dennis found out what he had done, he would be furious. However, he knew he had made the right choice, after all, it was his life and he was the one who had to live it.

Tilting his head, he gazed up into Booker’s sleeping face and a physical pain stabbed at his heart. More than anything, he wanted to know what it felt like to have Dennis make love to him. He wanted to share the explosive joy of their bodies coming together as one, completing them both as they shuddered out their release in unison, sating the desire that burned within their souls. But he was hesitant to take their relationship to that level because if he did, he knew he would never be able to leave, and although Booker was unaware of it, _he_ understood their relationship was now a ticking time bomb, counting them down to the moment when they would cease to be.


	24. Slouching Towards Bethlehem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I won't be posting again for a few weeks as I am going on holiday. This chapter hasn't turned out as well as I had hoped, but in my defense, I've had the flu. I hope it isn't too much of a disappointment.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage xx**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Wednesday November 1st 1989 (10.18 p.m.)_
> 
> _Tom lay in Booker’s arms listening to the steady, hypnotic rhythm of his breathing as he slept peacefully beside him. They had agreed to ease back into their relationship and so they had spent the day talking and watching television. When they had finally climbed into bed, Booker had attempted to initiate contact but Tom had remained stubbornly resolute and although disappointed, his lover had not pushed the point. Now, twenty minutes later, Booker lay softly snoring next to him, lost in the fantasies of his dreams. But for Tom, it was not so easy to put the last week of his life behind him. He had made a monumental decision about his future only days before and he knew that when Dennis found out what he had done, he would be furious. However, he knew he had made the right choice, after all, it was his life and he was the one who had to live it._
> 
> _Tilting his head, he gazed up into Booker’s sleeping face and a physical pain stabbed at his heart. More than anything, he wanted to know what it felt like to have Dennis make love to him. He wanted to share the explosive joy of their bodies coming together as one, completing them both as they shuddered out their release in unison, sating the desire that burned within their souls. But he was hesitant to take their relationship to that level because if he did, he knew he would never be able to leave, and although Booker was unaware of it, he understood their relationship was now a ticking time bomb, counting them down to the moment when they would cease to be._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170025343/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Tuesday November 7th 1989 (6.07 p.m.)** _

Closing the apartment door, Booker frowned when he did not spy Tom sitting at his usual spot on the couch watching TV. Tossing his keys onto the counter, he walked over to the bathroom and his expression relaxed when he heard the sound of running water. Tom had been living back at the apartment for a week and during that time, their only intimate encounters had been the occasional hug and kiss. He respected Tom’s need to slow down their relationship; trust needed to be built again after their fist fight, but he ached to once again know the erotic sensation of trailing his fingers over his lover’s naked flesh and he was finding it increasingly difficult to uphold his end of the bargain. Just looking at Tom made him horny and now, as he stood listening to the shower’s steady stream of water, he imagined his lover slick with soapsuds, just waiting for a warm tongue to lick the opaque droplets of water from his slippery body, whilst he quivered beneath gentle fingertips that hungered to explore every inch of his naked flesh. The vision sent a shiver of arousal down his spine and his stomach flip-flopped with desire; he would need a cold shower himself if he allowed his imagination to wander any further.

When the shower turned off, a heavy silence echoed throughout the small apartment. Not wanting to be caught salivating outside the bathroom door, Booker turned away and walking into the tiny kitchenette, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and popping the top, he swallowed a large gulp of the cooling liquid. Kicking off his boots, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossing it carelessly over the back of the couch, he sat down and stretched his legs out in front of him. He hoped that once Tom faced the magistrate in the morning, they could settle down into a routine and resume the intimate side of their relationship. He missed the closeness just as much as the sex and even though they had yet to consummate their love in the traditional sense, he was prepared to wait until Tom was ready, as long as he knew their relationship was moving forward. As it stood, he felt as though they had stalled and he was terrified if he pushed his lover too soon, he would damage their already fragile relationship. Patience was not his strong point, but where Tom was concerned, he would do whatever it took to get their love back on track.

The bathroom door opened and Tom emerged through a waft of steam, a towel wrapped low around his waist and his damp hair curling endearingly around his beautiful face. Booker drew in his breath at the sight of his lover's smooth chest still glistening with tiny droplets of water, but he quickly pulled himself together. Getting horny would only leave him feeling frustrated and he wanted to relax after a hard day out in the field. So smiling amiably, he lifted his beer. “Join me?”

A slow, coy smile curled the corner of Tom’s lips and his dark eyes sparkled impishly. “Actually, I had something else in mind,” he murmured provocatively and with one swift motion, he dropped his towel to the floor, revealing his semi erect cock.

Booker’s eyes widened in surprise and he unconsciously flicked out his tongue and licked his lips in appreciation at the erotic sight presented before him. Placing his beer on the coffee table, he stood up and walked slowly over to where Tom was standing. He stopped and reaching out his hand, he ran his fingertips lightly up the underside of Tom’s cock, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from his lover. “Is there something I can help you with?” he teased in a soft, lilting voice. 

Tom’s smile broadened and tilting his head to one side, he stepped closer and massaged Booker’s growing bulge through the material of his jeans. “Yeah there is,” he breathed, his long, seductive eyelashes fluttering flirtatiously. “I want you to make love to me.”

It was Booker’s turn to draw in his breath and his dark eyes sparkled with a deep arousal. “Oh baby,” he moaned and leaning forward, he brushed his lips against the enticing flesh of Tom’s ever-present pout. 

Tom responded immediately and parting his lips, he flicked the tip of his tongue against Booker’s, the taste of his familiarity bringing forth a low moan of excitement as he melted into the kiss. Popping the button of his lover’s jeans, he carefully pulled down the zipper and released his growing erection, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the smooth cockhead. Breaking the kiss, Booker sucked lovingly at Tom’s lower lip. “Bedroom… now,” he gasped and before Tom could answer, he maneuvered him backwards across the room and towards the open bedroom door. 

Stumbling into the room, they fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and Tom made quick work of removing Booker’s clothing so they both lay naked, lapping and sucking at every inch of exposed flesh, unceremoniously savoring each other’s flavors with sweeping tongues and hungry mouths. Struggling for breath, Tom raised his head and locking his gaze with Booker’s dark orbs, his brown eyes flashed with unbridled passion. “I wanna ride you,” he panted heavily, “but if we don’t do it now, I’m gonna blow.”

The erotic image of Tom on top of him, riding his cock, almost pushed Dennis over the edge. Grabbing at the back of his lover’s neck, he pulled him forward and kissed him hard, almost brutally. “Oh baby,” he groaned, biting him playfully on the lip, “this is gonna be so much fun.”

Tom watched in amusement as Booker opened the bedside drawer and began a frantic search through the clutter. He suppressed a chuckle when triumphant fingers made contact with a tube of lubrication, but before he could take it from the outstretched hand, Booker tossed it onto the bed before his eager fingers once again dived back into the drawer and rummaged through the chaos. Eventually, his fingers extracted a wrapped condom from the jumbled mess and it joined the lube on the mattress. Turning his attention back to Tom, he smiled mischievously. “Let’s get this party started.”

Tom laughed enticingly and pushing Booker onto his back, he straddled his thighs. Picking up the lubrication, he unscrewed the cap and taking his lover’s hand in his, he squirted a generous amount of the oil onto his fingers, coating them liberally. Kneeling up, he guided Booker’s lubricated hand towards his entrance. “Just loosen me up,” he instructed in a voice dripping with excitement. “If you stimulate me, it’ll be over before we’ve even begun.”

Booker took Tom’s words very seriously; the last thing he wanted was his lover ejaculating before he had a chance to make love to him. Pressing a finger against Tom’s hole, he slowly pushed inside. His dark eyes grew black with arousal as Tom grasped the headboard and slowly moved up and down, impaling himself on the outstretched digit. He quickly inserted a second finger, desperate to get on to the main event and he gazed with growing excitement at Tom’s erection laying flat against his belly, the tip already secreting precum. He became so mesmerized by the sight, he did not notice that Tom had ripped open the condom package and it was only when he felt expert fingers rolling the rubber onto his cock that he realized he was sheathed, lubed and ready to go. 

Tom gently removed Booker’s fingers from inside him and he shuffled forward so he was kneeling just above his lover’s erect cock. Wrapping his fingers around the base of Booker’s erection, he guided the tip towards his throbbing anus before taking a deep breath and slowly bearing down. As his lover’s hardness entered him, filling him up in the most exquisite of ways, he exhaled heavily. A low grunt sounded from below him and looking down, he saw that Booker’s eyes were black with hot desire. “Ready?” he grinned.

A nod of Booker’s head was all it took and entwining his fingers through the cast iron headboard, he began to slowly raise and lower his body over the hardness inside him. Gentle hands grasped his hips, helping to guide him as he rode the huge cock inside him and as his internal muscles relaxed, his movements became more fluid. Shifting his position slightly, he gasped as a fire exploded from within and he started to increase his pace, squatting up and down at a furious speed, his cock bouncing erotically against his belly. “There!” he began to pant in excitement. “Oh God Dennis, there!”

Booker’s eyes flashed bright as he frantically lifted and lowered his lover onto his cock. “Do you like that baby?” he growled. “Do you like my cock inside you?”

“ _Yesss_ ,” Tom hissed breathlessly. “Oh God Dennis, it feel so… it feels _sooo_ fucking good.”

“That’s my beautiful boy,” Booker moaned passionately, the tightness surrounding him creating a fiery ball in the pit of his stomach that ignited his testicles and sent spasms down the length of his shaft. “I wanna see you come… are you gonna come for me?”

Tom could feel his orgasm rising and he slammed his body fervently up and down, gasping in a rhythmic tune each time Booker’s cock stimulated his prostate. “Yes… yes… yes… yes… yes… _YEEESSS!”_

Semen shot from the tip of his penis, coating his chest in the saliferous fluid. Booker growled at the erotic sight and taking control, he tightened his fingers around Tom’s slender hips, forcefully ramming his cock into him in quick successive bursts. “Fuck yeah fuck yeah fuck fuuuck _FUUUCK!”_

A powerful full body tremor vibrated throughout his body and he held his lover in place with rough fingers, the intensity of his grasp leaving angry red marks on Tom’s flesh as he shuddered out his release. When he felt himself beginning to soften, he gently disengaged before pulling off the used condom and throwing it carelessly onto the floor. His eyes locked with the contented brown eyes gazing down at him and wrapping his arms around his lover’s quivering body, he pulled him down and kissed him tenderly. They lay as one for several minutes, embraced in each other’s arms, lovingly kissing with soft, enticing lips and caressing with light, gentle fingers as their bodies tingled with the afterglow of their explosive orgasms. Eventually, Tom pulled away and sitting up, he gazed down at Booker with soulful eyes. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know—”

Placing a finger against Tom’s lips, Booker smiled encouragingly. “ _Nothing’s_ going to happen. There’s no evidence, they can’t find you guilty if there’s no evidence.”

Tom lowered his eyes to the floor. Even though what Booker said was true, he _was_ guilty and the idea that he would get away with killing his best friend was slowly destroying him. That was why he had made one of the most difficult decisions of his life, because if he did not face up to his past, he had no hope of a future. “I know,” he muttered, not daring to meet Booker’s sanguine gaze, “but I _need_ you to know, no matter what, I’ll never forget this night… never.”

Booker’s brow creased into a deep frown and sitting up, he gave his lover a look that portrayed all of his growing fear and confusion. “Was that a goodbye?” he asked in dismay, the modulation of his voice slowly rising in panic. “Are you trying to tell me you’re _leaving_ me, is _that_ it?”

Swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat, Tom lifted his head and tried to give a comforting smile, but the dark expression in his eyes instantly negated his attempt at reassurance and sensing his countenance had given him away, he quickly lowered his gaze.

But it was too late, Booker had witnessed the flash of pain in his lover’s eyes and his expression froze as the slow realization of what was happening dawned on him. “Oh my God,” he whispered, his eyes growing wide at the revelation. “Was this _breakup_ sex? After everything I’ve done for you, you’re walking out on me _now?”_

Tears misted Tom’s eyes and he shook his bowed head from side to side. “No, that’s not what it was,” he whispered back in a shaky voice. “I love you Dennis, but—”

“ _BUT?_ BUT _WHAT?”_ Dennis screeched hysterically and grabbing Tom by the shoulders, he shook him violently. “LOOK AT ME YOU SONOFABITCH! WHAT KIND OF GAME ARE YOU PLAYING? HUH? TELL ME! TELL _ME!”_

Grabbing hold of Booker’s wrists Tom forced his arms outwards, breaking his lover’s hold. “I’m not playing games,” he replied in a low, tense voice. “It’s just important to me that you know how I feel.”

Clambering from the bed, Booker stared down at Tom with wild, furious eyes, his sweaty, naked body heaving with anger. “AND THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT?” he shouted back. “Jesus _Christ_ Tom! How the _FUCK_ did you expect me to react? What the hell is wrong with you?!”

The scenario playing out before him was not what Tom had envisioned and he knew he needed to diffuse the situation, or risk losing Booker completely. He tried to speak, but his lower lip began to quiver and he stifled a sob. Seeing Tom’s distress, Booker’s temper immediately waned and sighing heavily, he sat down on the bed and draped an arm around his lover’s shoulders, pulling him in close. “I just don’t understand why you would do that,” he murmured against Tom’s sweaty hair. “Why would you say something so cryptic when we’d just experienced something so beautiful?”

But Tom had no explanation. In less than eighteen hours, Booker would know the devastating truth, but until then, he wanted their time together to be memorable for all the _right_ reasons and not because they had come to blows yet again. Lifting his head, he managed a watery smile. “I guess I’m just a little nervous about tomorrow. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

Booker immediately relaxed and tenderly sweeping Tom’s long bangs from his eyes, he leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Idiot,” he admonished softly. “Everything’s going to be fine and you didn’t ruin anything. I shouldn’t have snapped, I guess I’m more on edge than I thought.” When Tom did not answer, he gave his shoulders a squeeze and stood up. “How ‘bout some pizza?”

Tom nodded his head distractedly, barely noticing when Booker disappeared into the kitchen to make the call. He had mishandled a delicate situation by revealing his feelings too early, when he should have kept his mouth shut up until the time when it was too late for anything other than goodbyes. But he had felt the overwhelming need for Booker to know how much he loved him and that what they had just experienced was something that would remain with him forever. The passion and intensity of their lovemaking had awakened feelings inside him he did not know existed. It was a heady mixture of the most emotive of sensations that coursed through his veins, leaving him breathless with anticipation and a profound longing, and if he had known the Turkish phrase _Kara sevda_ , it would have described his feelings perfectly. It was a deep, passionate love, a blind love, a love that few would ever know and now that he had experienced the full, earth-shattering force of their coupling, he wished with all his heart he could turn back the clock and undo the chain of events he had set in motion.

But it was too late, the bomb was already ticking and he would have to live with the knowledge that he may have permanently destroyed what could have been, the most beautiful love story ever told.

**

_**Wednesday November 8th 1989 (10.16 a.m.)** _

With a déjà vu familiarity, Tom stood silently beside Gareth Williams in a courtroom crowded with journalists and other _looky-loos_ , all eager to hear the latest on the _good cop turned bad_ story. In the nineteen days since his last court appearance, the curiosity in his case had not waned, in fact, there were more people tightly packed into the small space than there had been before. The newspapers had kept the story alive, posting daily pictures of his beautiful adolescent face, along with speculation about what was sure to be an explosive trial, filled with intrigue and deception. However, what the journalists and readers did not know was that the most damning piece of evidence; the tapes, were now inadmissible, stolen from under the noses of one of the country’s most respected vice teams. It was a certainty that if someone had leaked the juicy tidbit of information to the press, there would have been an added lineup of enthusiastic voyeurs, all vying for a non-existent space within the cramped courtroom. It would have added to the mystery that was already the talk of conspiracy theorists, each one convinced the case would never go to trial because the defendant was a police officer and therefore, he remained protected by the internal brotherhood of law enforcement.

A hushed silence echoed throughout the law court and all those present in the cramped room rose to their feet as Magistrate Elwood Payne entered through a rear door and took his place behind the raised bench. The crowd took their seats, whispering in excitement as they waited for Elwood to make his opening announcement. Only Tom remained silent, his head bowed slightly forward in anguished anticipation for what was to come. Booker tried to catch his eye, but his gaze remained focused on the floor, unwilling to witness what he knew would be an angst-ridden display of tormented emotion once the magistrate revealed his secret. 

Payne cleared his throat and addressed Tom in his trademark gravelly voice. “It appears there’s been several important developments since we last met Mr. Hanson and I assume your attorney has explained the full implications of these changes. Are you still prepared to go ahead with the case as it has been presented before me?”

Booker turned to Harry and frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he whispered into his friend’s ear. 

Ioki flapped an irritated hand, signaling him to keep quiet as Tom gave his assent in a barely audible voice. Payne picked up a piece of paper and spoke in a tone tinged with displeasure. “Due to the _apparent_ disappearance of the police evidence tapes, the charge of drug trafficking has now been dismissed.”

A low hum of frenzied chatter sounded throughout the courtroom and unable to contain his excitement, Booker nudged Harry in the ribs. “See? I _told_ you it would all be worth it.”

The loud bang of a gavel brought the courthouse back to order and all eyes turned to Payne as he continued with his summation. “I will now address the second charge. Mr. Hanson, your attorney has advised me that you wish to plead guilty to negligent homicide, is this—”

“ _WHAT?_ TOMMY _NO!”_

Dozens of heads turned and stared at Booker, who now stood upright, his hands tightly gripping the balustrade in front of him and his face twisted into a mask of horrified disbelief. “TOM WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? TOMMY LOOK AT ME! _LOOK AT ME!_ DON’T DO THIS BABY. _PLEASE_ DON’T DO THIS!”

Ioki attempted to pull Booker back into his seat but the dark haired officer remained stubbornly on his feet and Payne rapped his gavel down on its sounding block half a dozen times. “Bailiffs! Remove that man from my court… NOW!”

Within seconds, two burley deputies hauled Booker through the crowd, the mass of onlookers whispering in excitement around him. He struggled violently against his eviction as his tortured voice echoed throughout the courtroom. “TOMMY! WHY WOULD YOU LEAVE ME? _WHY?”_

But Tom’s eyes remained fixed in front of him, refusing to acknowledge his lover’s desperate pleas for answers. He had made his decision and he was okay with it, no matter how much it hurt Booker. Prison was what he deserved and until he served whatever sentence the magistrate deemed appropriate, he would never be free… never.


	25. Reality Bites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:**
> 
> **Bull queer is a man who forcefully has sex with another man.**
> 
> **Mano derecha mean right hand and it usually refers to the second in command in a Hispanic gang.**
> 
> **Fresh fish is a new prison inmate.**
> 
> **Jefe means chief or boss. It is what the leader of a Hispanic gang is usually referred as.**
> 
> **Prag means prison fag.**
> 
> **Hack is prisoner's term for prison guard.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Payne cleared his throat and addressed Tom in his trademark gravelly voice. “It appears there’s been several important developments since we last met Mr. Hanson and I assume your attorney has explained the full implications of these changes. Are you still prepared to go ahead with the case as it has been presented before me?”_
> 
> _Booker turned to Harry and frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he whispered into his friend’s ear._
> 
> _Ioki flapped an irritated hand, signaling him to keep quiet as Tom gave his assent in a barely audible voice. Payne picked up a piece of paper and spoke in a tone tinged with displeasure. “Due to the apparent disappearance of the police evidence tapes, the charge of drug trafficking has now been dismissed.”_
> 
> _A low hum of frenzied chatter sounded throughout the courtroom and unable to contain his excitement, Booker nudged Harry in the ribs. “See? I told you it would all be worth it.”_
> 
> _The loud bang of a gavel brought the courthouse back to order and all eyes turned to Payne as he continued with his summation. “I will now address the second charge. Mr. Hanson, your attorney has advised me that you wish to plead guilty to negligent homicide, is this—”_
> 
> _“WHAT? TOMMY NO!”_
> 
> _Dozens of heads turned and stared at Booker, who now stood upright, his hands tightly gripping the balustrade in front of him and his face twisted into a mask of horrified disbelief. “TOM WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? TOMMY LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! DON’T DO THIS BABY. PLEASE DON’T DO THIS!”_
> 
> _Ioki attempted to pull Booker back into his seat but the dark haired officer remained stubbornly on his feet and Payne rapped his gavel down on its sounding block half a dozen times. “Bailiffs! Remove that man from my court… NOW!”_
> 
> _Within seconds, two burly deputies hauled Booker through the crowd, the mass of onlookers whispering in excitement around him. He struggled violently against his eviction as his tortured voice echoed throughout the courtroom. “TOMMY! WHY WOULD YOU LEAVE ME? WHY?”_
> 
> _But Tom’s eyes remained fixed in front of him, refusing to acknowledge his lover’s desperate pleas for answers. He had made his decision and he was okay with it, no matter how much it hurt Booker. Prison was what he deserved and until he served whatever sentence the magistrate deemed appropriate, he would never be free… never._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35809565912/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday November 8th 1989 (11.48 a.m.)** _

The echo of heavy footsteps steadily grew louder and lifting his head, Tom stared at the bars of the tiny cell that confined him within the county jail. His heart started to pound in his chest as the reality of the situation hit him hard; he was about to be transported to prison and he would not be a free man again for a very long time. His sentence of five years with a non-parole term of eighteen months had not shocked him; Williams had prepared him for the worst and during the days leading up to his hearing he had slowly managed to get his head around the fact. However, he now realized that accepting what _might_ happen was a very different concept to the harsh reality of what had _actually_ happened, and the true horror of his situation was only now starting to sink in. He was a convicted felon, guilty of negligent homicide by his own admission and he would spend the next year and a half of his life locked up with murders, rapists and every other type of criminal imaginable. It was a terrifying notion because he knew the inmates would automatically perceive him as weak and vulnerable. He was _exactly_ the type the bull queers would prey upon and he did not feel conceited in recognizing the fact. He had worked in law enforcement long enough to know he fit the mold; he was young, attractive, slightly built and had a past history of drug use and prostitution. Also, there was the added misfortune of being an ex police officer. Nothing gained the respect of an inmate’s peers faster than bagging a cop and he knew he would need to be vigilant and never let his guard down, otherwise he could end up on the receiving end of a severe beating… or worse, wind up dead.

The footsteps grew louder, now taking on an increased urgency in their quickening pace. Standing up, he took a deep breath and prepared himself for the inevitable. But when he saw Booker’s face frozen in a mask of pure misery, his heart skipped a beat and he choked back a sob. He thought he would have time to get used to the idea of prison before he saw Dennis again and that he would have had a reassuring speech worked out to placate his lover. He had wanted time to settle into his environment so he could work on feigning happiness rather than causing Dennis any unnecessary worry by revealing the panic he knew was shining from his eyes. But instead, there he was, staring at his lover through the bars of a cell and the pain in his heart crippled him with its intensity. He knew he looked terrified, lost and alone and his body began to tremble violently at the knowledge of the heartache he was causing. He should have walked away from his relationship with Dennis before the hearing, but he had selfishly wanted the reassurance of his love because he now feared loneliness more than he feared incarceration. Booker had reawakened his feelings and he was terrified of returning to the empty shell he had become when Amy died. 

He feared becoming a ghost.

Booker rushed forward and grasping hold of the metal bars, he gazed frantically at his lover. “Why?!” he shrieked in a voice several pitches higher than his normal timbre. “Why would you do that?”

Biting down hard on his lower lip to prevent the tears that threatened to spill from his tortured eyes, Tom shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the cement floor. “I had to,” he muttered, “I couldn’t live with myself knowing—”

“Knowing what?” Booker screamed back, his face twisted in anger. “Knowing that you killed Penhall? Why is it suddenly so important to you when you didn’t give a rat’s ass when it first happened? You waited until I fell in love with you to decide it’s okay to _abandon_ me! You sonofabitch! You played me! You fucking _played_ me!”

A single tear slid down Tom’s pale face and stepping forward, he wrapped his fingers over Booker’s and squeezed them tight. “I did this for _you!”_ he croaked. “I want you to have the man you deserve, not a lying piece of shit who can’t face up to his mistakes. I need to _pay_ for what I’ve done and I _need_ to be punished because otherwise, I think I might lose my mind.”

As Tom’s impassioned explanation sank in, Booker’s anger slowly started to fade, but a sense of loss and self-pity quickly replaced the heated emotion. “But what about me?” he whispered, his dark eyes filling with blinding tears. “Five years Tommy… five… fucking… years! I don’t know if I can put my life on hold for that long.”

“I can apply for parole after eighteen months,” Tom mumbled, his heart sinking at the realization his lover might not be prepared to stand by him, “but if you don’t want to wait for me, I understand. You should do what’s right for you.” 

Even though he could hear the pain in Tom’s voice, Booker was not in the right state of mind to offer him any comfort. Unraveling his fingers from the bars, he pulled away from his lover’s grasp and stared morosely at the dirty floor. “I don’t know what I want to do,” he muttered despondently. “I need time to think.”

Although his heart was breaking, Tom managed to keep an outwardly stoic exterior. “Okay, that’s fair. I’ll put you on the visitor list, just in case you want to see me. But if you don’t, I under… stand.” His voice faltered on the final word and he quickly turned away, hiding his face before the torrent of tears that had threatened to spill since his lover’s arrival began to flow freely from beneath his lids. His shoulders shook violently and he sobbed out his grief as he mourned the loss of the man who had stolen his heart. No matter what decision Booker made, the best-case scenario was that they would be apart for eighteen months, but for Tom, it might as well have been eighteen years because he was cynical enough to believe that absence did _not_ make the heart grow fonder.

After several long minutes, he gradually gained control of his composure and wiping his face with his hands, he turned back around. But all he saw was an empty corridor, Booker was gone and he was once again, alone.

**

_**Wednesday November 8th 1989 (5.18 p.m.)** _

The first thing Tom noticed as he walked silently behind the prison guard was the cacophony of noise that echoed throughout the penitentiary. The brutal sound of male voices screaming, yelling and cursing ricocheted off every filthy wall, the deafening noise causing him to clutch his belongings a little closer to his chest, as though his meager possessions afforded him some protection against the terrifying racket. Sweat trickled down his back, soaking through his white t-shirt and his legs felt like they had turned to rubber. His mouth was dry, making it difficult to swallow and he was more petrified than he had ever felt in his life. Every fiber of his being told him to run, to scream at the top of his lungs that he had made a mistake and that he took it all back. But the tiny remnant of cop that lay buried deep within his soul reared its head and spoke to him in an authoritative voice. He had made his decision and now he had to deal with the consequences. No matter how much he wished he could change his mind, he couldn’t and therefore, he had two choices; he could break down and let every predator take advantage of him, or he could stand tall and fight to maintain his dignity. Fear made you weak and if he was to survive his sentence unscathed, he needed to man up and prove his worth to the other inmates. He knew he could hold his own in a one on one fight and he hoped that would be enough to send a message to the prisoners and guards that he was not a scared little boy. It was all he had and he hoped with all his heart that it would be enough to keep him safe.

When he entered the recreation area, dozens of curious eyes followed him across the room. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention and when several low wolf whistles echoed throughout the room, his face flushed beet red with embarrassment. Struggling to swallow down the large lump that had formed in his throat, he concentrated on not passing out. He felt exposed and he kept his gaze firmly ahead of him, refusing to make eye contact with any of the other inmates. Any sign of fear and he was a dead man. He needed to keep his composure and if he made it through the first night unscathed, he only had another five hundred and forty-six days to go until he was eligible for parole. It was a day-by-day proposition and as long as he stayed focused, he minimized the risk of falling prey to those who physically and mentally consumed those who were floundering.

He needed to be Booker. 

The leader of the resident Latino gang laid down his pool cue and casually studied the newest member of D Block as he ascended the stairs to the cells. He smirked when he saw the look of determination on Tom’s flushed face, but he could see the panic in his dark eyes. The lad looked as green as they came and Miguel Mosco wondered how someone who was the very picture of innocence could have ended up in the worst division of the prison. Turning his head, he addressed his _mano derecha_. “Any word on the fresh fish?” he asked with a nod in Tom’s direction.

José Diaz's lip curled into a cruel grin. “It’s that baby-faced cop that made headlines,” he informed his leader. “He shot his partner during a drug raid. Hey check it out, it looks like he’s bunking with you.”

Mosco watched Tom enter his cell and a slow sinister smile played over his lips. “Well, well, well, isn’t that interesting,” he murmured softly and picking up his cue, he casually chalked the tip. “I want you to get the word out that _no one_ touches a single hair on his pretty little head. Got it?”

“You’re gonna have to give ‘em a reason Jefe,” Diaz commented, not wanting to upset his boss, but knowing the men were going to need an explanation. “Not only is he fresh meat, he’s fucking gorgeous too. The boys’ll be linin’ up to make him their prag. Y’know how they like the dainty ones.”

“Tell ‘em it’s personal,” Mosco replied, his eyes remaining fixed on his open cell door. “This bitch is mine.”

**

_**Wednesday November 8th 1989 (5.20 p.m.)** _

Booker sat in the near empty bar, a glass of whiskey grasped in his hand. He was drunk and he no longer cared about anything except ridding his mind of every memory he had made with Tom. The ache in his heart was too painful to ignore, but he no longer had the energy to continue on with the charade that they had any kind of future together, that they had _ever_ had any future together. Although inebriated, his mind was suddenly clear; Tom had manipulated him and he had been stupid enough to fall for it. He had offered him love and a place to stay when his friend had needed it most and he now cursed the foolishness of his actions. That Tom had voluntarily pleaded guilty because he was drowning in shame was lost on him, all he saw was a deceitful man who had broken his heart and his self-pity overrode any logical explanation for his lover's actions. His ego was dented; Tom had made a fool of him and that feeling never sat well with a proud man like Dennis Booker. 

Downing the remnants of his glass in one large gulp, he motioned to the bartender to give him a refill. His only plan was to keep drinking until the pain stopped and as he stared blindly in front of him through blurry eyes, he made the decision that he was through being a patsy. Rather than allow another person to take advantage of him again, he would lock the door to his heart and throw away the key because if he did not allow himself to love, he would never have to deal with the pain.


	26. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I apologise for any inaccuracies when using Spanish words and phrases throughout this story. I DID NOT use the Google Translator because we all know how hilarious _those_ results can be ;) Instead, I did my own independent research. However, not everything on the internet is accurate so again, please forgive any errors within the text.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Wednesday November 8th 1989 (5.20 p.m.)_
> 
> _Booker sat in the near empty bar, a glass of whiskey grasped in his hand. He was drunk and he no longer cared about anything except ridding his mind of every memory he had made with Tom. The ache in his heart was too painful to ignore, but he no longer had the energy to continue on with the charade that they had any kind of future together, that they had ever had any future together. Although inebriated, his mind was suddenly clear; Tom had manipulated him and he had been stupid enough to fall for it. He had offered him love and a place to stay when his friend had needed it most and he now cursed the foolishness of his actions. That Tom had voluntarily pleaded guilty because he was drowning in shame was lost on him, all he saw was a deceitful man who had broken his heart and his self-pity overrode any logical explanation for his lover's actions. His ego was dented; Tom had made a fool of him and that feeling never sat well with a proud man like Dennis Booker._
> 
> _Downing the remnants of his glass in one large gulp, he motioned to the bartender to give him a refill. His only plan was to keep drinking until the pain stopped and as he stared blindly in front of him through blurry eyes, he made the decision that he was through being a patsy. Rather than allow another person to take advantage of him again, he would lock the door to his heart and throw away the key because if he did not allow himself to love, he would never have to deal with the pain._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35809565602/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday November 8th 1989 (5.31 p.m.)** _

With his eyes screwed firmly shut, Tom stood in the middle of the cell and concentrated on calming his breathing. He continued to clutch his belongings to his chest, his reluctance to unpack an unconscious stalling technique; if he did not acknowledge that this was now his home, he would not have to accept the reality of the terrifying situation he now found himself in and he could pretend it was all just a bad dream.

When a light hand rested on his upper back, his shoulders shot up in fear and yelping in surprise, he shrank away from the touch. A soft laugh sounded around the small room and he inwardly cursed himself for showing fear. Opening his eyes, he turned around and stared with wide frightened eyes at the inmate standing next to him. The man was Hispanic, in his late twenties, with dark, smooth skin and bright, almond-shaped eyes that were an unexpected startling shade of green. A large jagged scar traversed his left cheek, but it in no way distracted from the attractiveness of his features, if anything, it gave him an intriguing mystique that made him appear even more alluring. But to Tom, his first impression was that he was the poster boy of a stereotypical gang member and he immediately raised his guard; one false move and he could find himself in a world of trouble.

“Hey,” the man greeted pleasantly, as he offered his hand. “I’m your cellie, Miguel Mosco, but all the inmates call me Jefe.”

Tom searched his memory for the meaning of the Spanish word and he eventually came up trumps. It was obvious that Mosco had the respect of his fellow Hispanic inmates to have risen to the rank of _Jefe_ at such a young age and his boastful remark that _all_ the inmates used the term to address him suggested that he was also in charge of the Block. The realization that he was sharing a cell with the most powerful man in the unit sent a shiver of foreboding down his spine. If he did not play his cards right, he was in for a world of trouble.

Mosco continued to stare at him with his inquisitive emerald eyes and Tom realized he needed to speak or risk looking like a fool. Shifting the load in his arms, he shook the outstretched hand. “Hanson… Tom Hanson,” he replied in a voice that trembled more than he would have liked.

Miguel’s smile broadened, revealing a set of perfectly even white teeth. “Welcome to D Block Tommy, the bottom bunk’s yours, make yourself at home.”

Hearing the familiarity of his pet name caused a lump to form in Tom’s throat and struggling against the emotion that threatened to bubble to the surface, he barely managed to keep his expression impassive. “Thanks,” he mumbled, terrified that the quaver in his voice would betray him. 

But if Mosco heard the tremor, it did not register on his face and stepping closer, he laid a companionable hand on Tom’s shoulder. “C’mon, let me introduce you to the boys.”

A small smile twitched at the corners of Tom’s lips and tossing his belongings onto his bunk, he followed Mosco from the cell.

**

_**Wednesday November 8th 1989 (9.47 p.m.)** _

Tom’s body stiffened as a terrified scream resonated throughout the prison and turning over in the narrow bunk, he pulled his pillow over his head and attempted to block out the disturbing sounds. Ever since lights out, an assortment of screams, yells and loud grunts had filtered in through the bars of his cell and it did not take a genius to realize what horrors were taking place under the cover of darkness. The smell of testosterone-fueled sex permeated the air, sex that was both consensual and the kind that was taken by force. Someone continuously whimpered _no, no, no,_ over and over, the pathetic mantra jangling Tom’s nerves until he felt like screaming _SHUT THE FUCK UP!_ But the reality was that deep down, another piece of his soul was slowly dying. He knew all too well what it was like to have someone take what should only be given willingly and he pitied those caught in the violent cycle of daily rapes and abuse. 

The springs above him squeaked and fearing the worst, his eyes flew open and his body froze in panic. But when Mosco remained on his bunk, he slowly released the breath he had not realized he was holding and placing his pillow back under his head, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. Long minutes slowly ticked by and just as the tenseness in his muscles began to ease, a quiet voice floated down from above like an intonation from the heavens. “Are you okay Hanson?” 

Tom exhaled heavily and rubbing an anxious hand over his mouth, he gazed up at the sagging mattress that hovered just inches above his face. “Yeah, it’s just… is it like this _every_ night?”

“Yep,” Mosco replied indifferently, “but after awhile, you stop hearing it. Lesson number one _Chico_ , as long as it ain’t happenin’ to you, it ain’t your concern… got it?”

Although Mosco could not see him, Tom nodded his head. “Got it,” he whispered. It was a harsh lesson, but a valuable one. He had to accept that the only person who mattered was himself and as much as he wanted to help those suffering physical and mental torment, his cellmate was right, he needed to mind his own business, get through his sentence day by day as best he could and concentrate on not becoming a victim himself.

**

_**Thursday November 9th 1989 (6.00 a.m.)** _

A loud siren woke Tom from a fitful sleep and sitting up, he watched as the door to his cell magically slid open. Two bare legs hung over the mattress above him and he noticed a large **V L** tattooed on the left calf. In his first year at Jump Street, he had attended a seminar on gang tattoos and he remembered that **V L** stood for _vida loca_ or _crazy life_. At that moment, it seemed an appropriate testimonial to his own fucked up life. Once upon a time, he had been Thomas Hanson, a heterosexual honor student who had graduated in the top two percent at the academy. He had been conscientious, hardworking and above all, law abiding, but now he was a murderous, former drug-using prostitute incarcerated for at least the next year and a half of his life and somehow, the inconceivable had happened; he had fallen in love with another man. His existence had become a parody of all of his former values and it would have been laughable if it were not so tragic. His life _was_ crazy and the absurdity of it made him laugh aloud, however, there was an echo of bitterness to his mirth. He had alienated himself from the only person who had stood by him during his fall from grace and now he found himself friendless and alone.

Mosco jumped down from the upper bunk and scratching lazily at his crotch through his boxers, he gave Tom a friendly smile. “Time to get up Hanson, count’s in four minutes, then you get a half hour to shit, shower and shave, and then it’s breakfast at seven. You don’t wanna be late ‘cause the food congeals pretty quickly in here.”

Fear flashed in Tom’s dark eyes; it was the moment he had been dreading, stripping down naked in front of dozens of men and his heart pounded heavily in his chest. Sensing his anxiety, Miguel suppressed a smirk and stepping forward, he placed a companionable arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry _mi chico hermoso_ , you’re safe in here, no one messes with one of _my_ boys.”

Unaware that _mi chico hermoso_ translated to _my beautiful boy_ , Tom was too relieved to question the implications of being one of Mosco’s _boys_ and he smiled back gratefully. He had survived his first night and it seemed he and his cellie were going to get along fine. It was a huge weight off his shoulders and suddenly, the next eighteen months did not seem as daunting as they had twenty-four hours ago.

Gathering up his toiletries, he failed to notice the cruel glint in Mosco’s eyes. If he had, he might have had second thoughts about the man he considered his friend.

**

_**Five weeks later - Friday December 14th 1989 (9.07 a.m.)** _

Harry raised an eyebrow at Booker’s choice of inside eyewear. His partner wore the same clothes he had the day before and a pair of black Ray Bans thinly veiled his attempt to hide the effects of another night of heavy drinking. It was obvious to him that Booker had convinced himself Tom was not going to prison and now that the unimaginable had happened, the young officer was not handling the news well. He had tried on several occasions to offer a friend’s sympathetic support, but Booker had pushed him away, unwilling or unable to share his inner pain. However, as the days slipped into weeks, he could sense his partner slowly spiraling towards a complete breakdown and he knew he needed to intervene. Dennis was a good cop, but his career was on the line and he would be damned if he would sit back and watch his best friend destroy his life. The time had come to step up and tell him a few home truths. He knew he was playing with fire, Booker’s temper was volatile and unpredictable, but he could no longer sit back and do nothing; his partner needed his help. 

He watched silently as Booker moved unsteadily between the mélange of desks, filing cabinets and law enforcement officers and when his friend finally collapsed into a chair, he gave him the once over. “Big night?”

Booker scowled and pulling off his sunglasses, he tossed them angrily onto the desk and glared back with bloodshot eyes. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture Ioki,” he growled. “So I had a few drinks last night, what’s the big fucking deal?”

Well aware that Booker’s definition of _a few drinks_ meant staying home and getting hammered so he would forget how much he missed Tom, Harry decided that now was as good a time as any to say his piece. “I’m not going to lecture you Dennis, I’m worried about you, so I’m saying this from one friend to another… go and see him.”

A look of utter misery passed over Booker’s pale face and lowering his eyes, he stared at the floor. “I can’t,” he mumbled softly, “I just can’t.”

Finding himself rapidly losing patience, Ioki exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Why the hell not? You love him don’t you? He can’t visit you so go to him, let him know that you still care.”

Several minutes ticked by before Booker lifted his head, revealing a pair of dark, haunted eyes. “What if they’re _doing_ things to him?” he whispered in a voice filled with anguish. “I can’t help him and _knowing_ that I can’t help him is just too fucking hard. I’d rather be ignorant to his pain than feel powerless.”

Ioki’s expression immediately hardened and he glared at his partner. “Why aren’t I surprised? This was never about Tom, it’s all about you, you selfish sonofabitch!”

It was Booker’s turn to glower and narrowing his gaze, he gave Ioki a fierce look. “Why the fuck do you care?” he shot back angrily. “You don’t give a shit about him.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Harry replied through clenched teeth. “I took him in when you beat him to a bloody—”

“IT WAS A FAIR FIGHT!” Booker screamed back and several pairs of curious eyes stared at them from around the crowded room. “HE HIT HIS HEAD BY ACCIDENT! I WOULD NEVER DO ANYTHING TO HURT HIM! NEVER! I FUCKING LOVE HIM YOU STUPID BASTARD!”

Harry’s expression softened. “Then show him,” he murmured. “I’m sure he’s missing you, just as much as you’re missing him.”

The anger left Booker just as quickly as it had appeared and his lower lip pushed into a soft pout. “Maybe,” he conceded moodily, “but I can’t deal with it right now. I’ll book in for a visit after Christmas.”

Realizing that he was not about to change his friend’s mind, Harry managed a halfhearted smile. All he could do was hope that Booker had not left the visit too late.


	27. Only the Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Once again, I apologize for any inaccuracies with my Spanish. All translations are in brackets.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Five weeks later - Friday December 14th 1989 (9.07 a.m.)_
> 
> _Harry raised an eyebrow at Booker’s choice of inside eyewear. His partner wore the same clothes he had the day before and a pair of black Ray Bans thinly veiled his attempt to hide the effects of another night of heavy drinking. It was obvious to him that Booker had convinced himself Tom was not going to prison and now that the unimaginable had happened, the young officer was not handling the news well. He had tried on several occasions to offer a friend’s sympathetic support, but Booker had pushed him away, unwilling or unable to share his inner pain. However, as the days slipped into weeks, he could sense his partner slowly spiraling towards a complete breakdown and he knew he needed to intervene. Dennis was a good cop, but his career was on the line and he would be damned if he would sit back and watch his best friend destroy his life. The time had come to step up and tell him a few home truths. He knew he was playing with fire, Booker’s temper was volatile and unpredictable, but he could no longer sit back and do nothing; his partner needed his help._
> 
> _He watched silently as Booker moved unsteadily between the mélange of desks, filing cabinets and law enforcement officers and when his friend finally collapsed into a chair, he gave him the once over. “Big night?”_
> 
> _Booker scowled and pulling off his sunglasses, he tossed them angrily onto the desk and glared back with bloodshot eyes. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture Ioki,” he growled. “So I had a few drinks last night, what’s the big fucking deal?”_
> 
> _Well aware that Booker’s definition of a few drinks meant staying home and getting hammered so he would forget how much he missed Tom, Harry decided that now was as good a time as any to say his piece. “I’m not going to lecture you Dennis, I’m worried about you, so I’m saying this from one friend to another… go and see him.”_
> 
> _A look of utter misery passed over Booker’s pale face and lowering his eyes, he stared at the floor. “I can’t,” he mumbled softly, “I just can’t.”_
> 
> _Finding himself rapidly losing patience, Ioki exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Why the hell not? You love him don’t you? He can’t visit you so go to him, let him know that you still care.”_
> 
> _Several minutes ticked by before Booker lifted his head, revealing a pair of dark, haunted eyes. “What if they’re doing things to him?” he whispered in a voice filled with anguish. “I can’t help him and knowing that I can’t help him is just too fucking hard. I’d rather be ignorant to his pain than feel powerless.”_
> 
> _Ioki’s expression immediately hardened and he glared at his partner. “Why aren’t I surprised? This was never about Tom, it’s all about you, you selfish sonofabitch!”_
> 
> _It was Booker’s turn to glower and narrowing his gaze, he gave Ioki a fierce look. “Why the fuck do you care?” he shot back angrily. “You don’t give a shit about him.”_
> 
> _“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Harry replied through clenched teeth. “I took him in when you beat him to a bloody—”_
> 
> _“IT WAS A FAIR FIGHT!” Booker screamed back and several pairs of curious eyes stared at them from around the crowded room. “HE HIT HIS HEAD BY ACCIDENT! I WOULD NEVER DO ANYTHING TO HURT HIM! NEVER! I FUCKING LOVE HIM YOU STUPID BASTARD!”_
> 
> _Harry’s expression softened. “Then show him,” he murmured. “I’m sure he’s missing you, just as much as you’re missing him.”_
> 
> _The anger left Booker just as quickly as it had appeared and his lower lip pushed into a soft pout. “Maybe,” he conceded moodily, “but I can’t deal with it right now. I’ll book in for a visit after Christmas.”_
> 
> _Realizing that he was not about to change his friend’s mind, Harry managed a halfhearted smile. All he could do was hope that Booker had not left the visit too late._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170024983/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Eleven days later - Monday December 25th 1989 (12.12 p.m.)** _

An attempt by the inmates to bestow a bit of festive cheer had fallen miserably short of the mark. Worn pieces of tinsel hung haphazardly around the dining room, the dullness of the grey walls now highlighted by brightly painted children’s drawings depicting misshapen Santas and lopsided Christmas trees, each vivid piece of artwork drawing attention to the decades old nicotine stains they attempted to hide. For Tom, it was a depressing misrepresentation of his favorite holiday and the dismal attempt at a Christmas feast only added to his misery. A slice of overcooked turkey meatloaf, a dollop of lumpy mashed potato, limp beans and a spoonful of tepid, watery gravy was not his idea of a Yuletide banquet, and the unappetizing affair left his mouth dry and his stomach growling. It was a fittingly disappointing ending to what had been an emotionally stressful morning.

Throughout the long, tedious hours that should have been spent drinking eggnog and opening presents, he had tried to contact Booker by phone, the desperate need to speak to his lover now overwhelming him. But each time he tried he had reached the answering machine and hearing Dennis’ voice asking him to _please leave a message,_ had caused a physical pain in his heart and brought stinging tears to his eyes. Although it was becoming increasingly obvious that Booker had abandoned him, he refused to give up hope completely and so he had left a faux cheery message in return, wishing him a Merry Christmas. He made sure to hang up quickly before the tremor in his voice betrayed his true feelings of desolation and despair because he did not want to cause his friend any guilt. But never before had he felt so alone and he longed for the Yule celebrations to end so the days could once again return to the boring humdrum predictability of everyday prison life that he found his mind slowly adjusting to with each passing day. Even though he still hated the confinement, the familiarity and routine were somewhat comforting, giving him the stability he craved and with every hour that passed, he found the days a little easier to cope with. It was a classic case of institutionalization and even though he recognized it for what it was, he refused to acknowledge that by the time his release came about, in all likelihood, he would view D Block as home. 

Pushing his uneaten tray of food to one side, he gazed out in front of him with unfocused eyes. The loud banter and raucous laughter of the other inmates; all of whom appeared to be enjoying _their_ Yuletide feast; barely registered with him. He was lost in the fantasy of his own mind and the men’s strident merriment quickly became the resonance of Booker’s low chuckle, the imagined sound bringing a smile to his lips. In his mind's eye, he could see his lover standing before him, a small teasing smile playing over his full lips and his dark unruly hair pushed back from his face, revealing his expressive coal-black eyes. The image remained burned into his memory and he knew if he never saw Booker again, the vision would remain with him forever.

He jumped slightly when a warm hand rested on his forearm and refocusing his eyes, he turned his head to the right. Mosco’s vivid green eyes gazed serenely back at him, the left eyebrow arched in question. “Is everything okay Hanson?”

A rush of air exhaled from between Tom’s lips. “Yeah,” he replied in a flat voice. “I guess so.”

Standing up, Mosco picked up his empty tray. “C’mon, let’s have a game of pool, it’ll get your mind off things for awhile.”

Grateful that his cellie did not press him for details, Tom smiled back. “Sure thing, but be prepared to lose.”

Mosco threw back his head and laughed, his green eyes flashing with merriment. “Dream on muchacho,” he grinned, “you’re goin’ down.”

The melancholy of the last few hours slowly evaporated and pushing all thoughts of Booker from his mind, Tom followed Mosco into the recreation room.

**

_**Monday December 25th 1989 (12.33 p.m.)** _

Joyce Booker placed a glass of eggnog next to her son. “You need to forget about him,” she stated in a cool voice. “ _That_ Tom is nothing but trouble.”

Dennis’ hands balled into tight fists and even though his insides were a broiling mass of suppressed anger, he remained outwardly calm. “It’s not that easy, I still love him.”

With a resounding _pfft_ , Joyce pursed her thin lips in disapproval. “Even though it goes against God’s teachings, I have unwillingly supported your decision to be bisexual because you’re my son Denny, but I _won’t_ support your decision to date a criminal. Enough is enough, you’re embarrassing the family.”

His mother’s words grated on Dennis’ soul and clenching his hands tighter, he concentrated on feeling the pain his fingernails inflicted on the soft flesh of his palms so he would not act on the compulsion to pick up the eggnog and throw it against the wall. “It’s not a _decision_ to be bisexual Mom,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I _am_ bisexual and what I feel for Tommy, it’s complicated because—”

“Because nothing,” Joyce interrupted coldly. “If you love him so much, why don’t you go see him? Seems to me it’s because deep down you know he’s letting some _other_ man commit unnatural acts—”

“MOM!” Booker exclaimed and jumping to his feet, he began to pace across the floor, his fingers raking through his hair in agitation. “STOP! JUST STOP!”

An uncomfortable silence echoed throughout the festively decorated home. The Christmas tree’s lights twinkled merrily, adding a fake sense of warmth to the emotional coldness that quickly filled the room and when Joyce eventually opened her mouth to speak, Booker held up his hand, stopping her before she could utter a word. “Don’t.”

Joyce’s expression hardened. “Please don’t raise your hand at me Denny,” she rebuked. “I won’t tolerate insolence in my house.”

“Maybe I should leave,” Booker mumbled and picking up his jacket, he made his way towards the door.

Stubbornness ran in the family and Joyce refused to beg her son to stay. “That Tom is going to cause you nothing but pain, you mark my words.”

“Bye Mom, Merry Christmas,” Booker muttered and opening the door, he strode purposefully out of his childhood home.

**

_**Monday December 25th 1989 (9.58 p.m.)** _

A low hum settled over the prison and bending forward, Tom spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the drain of the stainless steel basin in his cell. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he lifted his head and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw Mosco's face reflected next to his own in the mottled mirror hanging on the wall. When the cell lights dimmed, plunging the room into a shadowy darkness, an arm circled his waist and shocked by the unexpected contact, he started to speak, but his words caught in his throat as gentle fingers began to massage his cock through the material of his boxers. “W-Wh—”

“Shh,” Mosco murmured against Tom’s ear, his warm breath tickling the exposed flesh of the younger man’s neck. “I know you’re missing that boyfriend of yours, why don’t you let me help take your mind off him for awhile.”

“M-Mosco...” Tom stammered and staring into the mirror, his eyes grew steadily wider as his neglected cock began to react to the tender stimulation.

A moist tongue licked a trail up the long column of his neck and a shiver of excitement ran down his spine. It had been so long since he had felt the erotic pleasure of arousal and his body instantly awakened. Blood rushed to his cock, hardening his shaft and heat spread throughout his body, flushing his cheeks an attractive shade of pink, the effect causing Mosco to laugh teasingly. “Mmm, I never expected you to be shy Chico,” the Latino murmured, his talented fingers gently caressing Tom’s lengthening shaft. “Word is your tight little ass has made plenty of men _very_ happy. But don’t worry Tommy, there ain't no shame in seeking comfort from others, we all have needs and if you let me, I can make your time here a lot less lonely.” 

Tom’s eyes fluttered closed and clutching the edge of the basin, his toothbrush slipped from between his fingers and fell discarded to the floor. “Ohhh,” he breathed and rocking his hips forward, he pushed his erection into Mosco’s willing hand. " _Yesss_."

Using his free hand, Mosco lowered Tom’s boxers, the soft material dropping to the floor and pooling at the ex-cop's feet. Pushing down his own underwear, he quickly stepped out of the restrictive material and rubbing his burgeoning cock against Tom’s backside, he nipped playfully at his earlobe. “Do you like it rough mi chico hermoso, _(my beautiful boy)_ or do you want Papá nice and slick?”

A metaphorical switch clicked on in Tom’s mind and he found himself transported back to the time when he had pleasured men for drugs and was willing to do or say anything to please his client. “Yes,” he moaned indecisively, the exhilarating titillation rendering his words almost unintelligible and closing his eyes, he gave into the erotic sensation of the light fingers teasing his cock to life. "Hell yes."

“That’s my boy,” Mosco whispered excitedly and reaching out, he grabbed a small tube of moisturizer from a shelf above the basin. Releasing Tom’s cock, he coated the fingers of his right hand in the slippery oil before liberally lubricating his penis. When he was satisfied, he dropped the lotion to the floor and wrapping his hand back around Tom’s erection, he tugged gently as he roughly inserted a slick finger into his anus. Tom gasped as a mixture of both pleasure and pain confused his senses, jangling his nerve endings with excitement. Without warning, Mosco inserted a second finger and using a scissoring action, he forced open the tight rings of muscle inside Tom’s channel. There was no love in his touch, just a determination to take what he wanted, however, his ministrations were not cruel, he just lacked the tenderness of a caring lover. 

Once happy Tom was stretched enough to receive him, he removed his fingers and pressed the tip of his erection against the younger man’s puckered hole. Staring at their reflections in the mirror, he gave Tom’s cock a gentle squeeze. “Open your eyes Chico,” he instructed softly, “I want you to look at me when I fuck you.”

With a low groan of excited anticipation, Tom readily obliged and he gazed back trustingly at Mosco’s distorted image. Mosco immediately found himself drawn in by the sensuous look in the soft brown eyes and he exhaled heavily. “Fuck you’re one beautiful hijo de puta _(sonofabitch)_ ,” he moaned and holding the base of his cock, he pushed his erection inside Tom’s willing body.

“ _Fuuuck_ ,” Tom breathed and leaning forward, he gripped the edge of the basin and pushed backwards, burying Mosco’s cock deeper within his ass. The exquisite sensation of a thick cock filling the emptiness inside him was almost too much to bear and when Mosco rocked his hips forward, the added force stimulating his prostate with every thrust, a fire radiated deep inside his soul and he became more vocal. “Harder,” he instructed, his breath catching in his throat. “Fuck me harder.”

With a growl of dominance, Mosco grabbed hold of Tom’s hips with rough hands and rammed his cock in and out of the tight anus. The erotically sexual slapping of skin-on-skin resonated around the tiny cell and as his arousal heightened, Tom began to pant a hypnotic mantra. “Touch me touch me touch me touch me touch me..." 

Mosco’s full lips drew back, baring his teeth in a vicious grin and leaning forward, he pressed his mouth against Tom’s ear and taunted softly, “Do you wanna come mi bello puto? _(my beautiful whore)_ Do you want me to stroke your dick?”

“Yes!” Tom gasped and reaching back, he grasped Mosco’s wrist and pulling his hand forward, he wrapped it around his aching shaft. “Please Mosco… _please!”_

The desperation in Tom’s voice widened Mosco’s manic grin. “Say my name,” he crooned in a tone dripping with power. “I wanna hear you scream it.”

“M-Mosco _please_ ,” Tom begged softly, “I don’t want the others to hear.”

“SAY IT!” Mosco yelled, his hand clamping down painfully on the base of Tom’s erect cock.

“Mosco…” Tom whimpered.

“LOUDER!”

“M-Mosco!”

“LOUDER BITCH!”

As Tom’s need to ejaculate became overwhelming, he closed his eyes, drew in his breath and abandoned his last shred of dignity. “MOS _COOO!”_ he screamed.

Mosco released the pressure on Tom’s cock and with a few quick strokes, he brought him back to hardness. Within seconds, Tom’s orgasm hit hard and he let out a strangled cry. Fueled by the strong scent of semen, Mosco's body thrust forward, slamming Tom’s stomach against the rim of the basin and he too ejaculated forcefully, his seed filling his lover's body.

The sound of clapping echoed around D Block and wolf whistles pierced through the darkness. “YEAH MOSCO, YOU CLAIMED THAT BITCH!” an inmate yelled in delight, his laughter floating eerily throughout the unit. 

Tears filled Tom’s eyes as the realization of what he had done slowly impacted on him and with Mosco’s cock still embedded deep inside him, he lowered his head and vomited into the hand basin. 

“Jes _uuus!”_ Mosco exclaimed in horror and withdrawing his cock, he staggered backwards.

“What did you do to him Jefe?” a voice taunted from the cell next door, the sound of Tom's heaving resonating throughout the Block. “Didn’t he like your cock up his ass?”

“Cállate la boca! _(Shut the fuck up!)_ ” Mosco yelled angrily and gazing down at Tom’s bowed head, he felt a slight stab of remorse. Stepping forward, he placed a gentle hand on the small of the younger man's back. “Hey Tommy, are you okay?”

Tom lifted his head and gazed at Mosco through the mirror. “He’ll never forgive me,” he whispered, the haunted expression in his dark eyes revealing his inner torment.

Mosco let out a sigh and draping an arm around Tom’s shoulders, he tenderly wiped the saliva from his lips. “Then maybe it’s time to forget him.”


	28. In Absentia Luci, Tenebrae Vincunt (In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: With a growl of dominance, Mosco grabbed hold of Tom’s hips with rough hands and rammed his cock in and out of the tight anus. The erotically sexual slapping of skin-on-skin resonated around the tiny cell and as his arousal heightened, Tom began to pant a hypnotic mantra. “Touch me touch me touch me touch me touch me..."_
> 
> _Mosco’s full lips drew back, baring his teeth in a vicious grin and leaning forward, he pressed his mouth against Tom’s ear and taunted softly, “Do you wanna come mi bello puto? (my beautiful whore) Do you want me to stroke your dick?”_
> 
> _“Yes!” Tom gasped and reaching back, he grasped Mosco’s wrist and pulling his hand forward, he wrapped it around his aching shaft. “Please Mosco… please!”_
> 
> _The desperation in Tom’s voice widened Mosco’s manic grin. “Say my name,” he crooned in a tone dripping with power. “I wanna hear you scream it.”_
> 
> _“M-Mosco please,” Tom begged softly, “I don’t want the others to hear.”_
> 
> _“SAY IT!” Mosco yelled, his hand clamping down painfully on the base of Tom’s erect cock._
> 
> _“Mosco…” Tom whimpered._
> 
> _“LOUDER!”_
> 
> _“M-Mosco!”_
> 
> _“LOUDER BITCH!”_
> 
> _As Tom’s need to ejaculate became overwhelming, he closed his eyes, drew in his breath and abandoned his last shred of dignity. “MOSCOOO!” he screamed._
> 
> _Mosco released the pressure on Tom’s cock and with a few quick strokes, he brought him back to hardness. Within seconds, Tom’s orgasm hit hard and he let out a strangled cry. Fueled by the strong scent of semen, Mosco's body thrust forward, slamming Tom’s stomach against the rim of the basin and he too ejaculated forcefully, his seed filling his lover's body._
> 
> _The sound of clapping echoed around D Block and wolf whistles pierced through the darkness. “YEAH MOSCO, YOU CLAIMED THAT BITCH!” an inmate yelled in delight, his laughter floating eerily throughout the unit._
> 
> _Tears filled Tom’s eyes as the realization of what he had done slowly impacted on him and with Mosco’s cock still embedded deep inside him, he lowered his head and vomited into the hand basin._
> 
> _“Jesuuus!” Mosco exclaimed in horror and withdrawing his cock, he staggered backwards._
> 
> _“What did you do to him Jefe?” a voice taunted from the cell next door, the sound of Tom's heaving resonating throughout the Block. “Didn’t he like your cock up his ass?”_
> 
> _“Cállate la boca! (Shut the fuck up!)” Mosco yelled angrily and gazing down at Tom’s bowed head, he felt a slight stab of remorse. Stepping forward, he placed a gentle hand on the small of the younger man's back. “Hey Tommy, are you okay?”_
> 
> _Tom lifted his head and gazed at Mosco through the mirror. “He’ll never forgive me,” he whispered, the haunted expression in his dark eyes revealing his inner torment._
> 
> _Mosco let out a sigh and draping an arm around Tom’s shoulders, he tenderly wiped the saliva from his lips. “Then maybe it’s time to forget about him.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35809565402/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**19 days later - Saturday January 13th 1990 (5.27 a.m.)** _

The gentle caress of fingertips gently stroking his face jerked Tom from his REM dream state and back to reality with a jolt. Lifting his head off the pillow, he gazed through sleep-filled eyes at the shadowy figure standing before him. In the faint dawn light filtering in through the window, he could see that Mosco was naked from the waist down, his enormous erection jutting proudly out in front of him, waiting for attention. It had become a familiar sight over the last few weeks and he knew _exactly_ what his cellmate was about to say before the Latino even opened his mouth and uttered the fateful words, “Estoy caliente. Chupa mi verga mi chico hermoso. _(I’m horny. Suck my dick my beautiful boy.)”_

The first time Mosco had woken him with his _request_ , even though Tom had not understood the words, there had been no mistaking their meaning and he knew the surprised look on his face must have amused the hell out of his cellmate. Since their first sexual encounter almost three weeks before, barely a day went by without Mosco requesting some sort of sexual favor from him and even though in return he received the pleasure he so desperately craved, he was starting to feel more like a sex toy than a lover or a friend. The realization troubled him and he often found himself wondering if he had made a huge mistake by willingly giving himself to Mosco. But he knew that even if he had, there was no turning back; all he could do was forget about Booker and move on. However, even though he tried his hardest to remove from his mind the man he attributed as being his savior, Booker was never far from his thoughts because the dark haired officer was as much a part of him as his own soul. It was not too difficult to occupy his mind with other thoughts during the daylight hours, but at night, when he fell into the blessed escape of sleep, Booker infiltrated his dreams and he awoke every morning feeling enormous regret for not keeping himself _chaste_ for the man he loved. Of course, waking every morning confronted by Mosco’s erect penis eagerly awaiting oral stimulation only added to the confusion of his mixed emotions. He _needed_ his cellmate if he had any chance of surviving his time inside and he _wanted_ the sexual gratification he received from him because without it, he feared he would once again lose all sense of love, and the thought of returning to the shadowlands of his past terrified him. It was a double-edged sword because being with Mosco meant he could lose Booker forever, but in his heart, he knew he could not risk going back to the emptiness that had engulfed him after Amy's death, because if he did, he feared he would never return. 

He was a helpless fly trapped in a spider’s web and there was no way out.

Mosco’s impatient voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present with a thud. “C’mon brown eyes, I’m dyin’ here. Wrap that pretty mouth around me and suck me hard.”

Tom ran a hand over his blurry eyes and sitting up, he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. Mosco immediately stepped forward, his erection just inches from Tom’s face and reaching out a hand, he lovingly stroked his sleep-tousled hair. “That’s it beautiful,” he coaxed in a soft voice. “Give Papá what he wants and I promise I’ll return the favor.”

The thought of Mosco giving him a blowjob was all the incentive Tom needed and placing his hands on his _friend's_ hips, he licked his lips before pressing them around his cellmate’s cockhead and lovingly sucking on the tip. He knew it was what Mosco liked and he found himself instantly rewarded by the soft caress of gentle fingers massaging his scalp. “ _Yesss_ ,” the Latino hissed, his voice echoing loudly around the small cell. "Chupa mi verga Tommy, chupa mi verga. _(Suck my dick Tommy, suck my dick.)”_

At the sound of Mosco's voice, a chorus of excited jeers echoed throughout the Block. _“Yeah Jefe! Fuck that bitch’s pretty mouth… fuck him… C’mon Jefe, don't keep him all to yourself, share him around… Hey Tommy, how ‘bout you suck my cock after breakfast...”_

The vulgar comments continued as Tom moved his mouth over Mosco’s shaft, the erect cock between his lips continuing to engorge, filling him completely with its hardness. Salty precum coated his tongue, the now familiar flavor sending a shiver of arousal down his spine and his own cock began to swell. But he refrained from touching himself because he wanted to experience the erotic pleasure of Mosco’s lips wrapped around him, his teasing mouth bringing him to orgasm and rewarding him for a job well done.

Loud, excited moans quickly replaced the taunting catcalls, the sexual mating songs of consenting cellmates taking pleasure in each other’s bodies now resonating off the walls, the thrill of their titillation intensified by Mosco’s enraptured groans. Not long after, desperate, terrified cries added to the cacophony of vocalizations, as those too weak to protect their bodies suddenly found themselves under attack, the rapes perpetrated by inmates who had the ability to dominate and take that which should only be given willingly. The masculine stench of testosterone-fueled sex filled the stagnant air and the single guard in the control room overlooking the cells unzipped his trousers and massaged his cock. It was against regulations to allow the prisoners to engage in any form of sexual activity, but all the guards ignored what went on, mostly for their own perverted gratification, but also because to try to stop it was a pointless exercise. Sex was a part of prison life; the inmates would always find a way to gain their release, whether it was consensual or by force and for the _hacks_ , it was easier to turn a blind eye than intervene. It was all part of the prison code and it left those subjected to daily rapes, helpless and with nowhere to turn.

Mosco thrust his hips forward, ramming his cock against the back of Tom’s throat. A soft grunt escaped his lips and tangling his fingers in Tom’s hair, he drove his erection even deeper into the moist mouth. “Buen chico, _(good boy)”_ he moaned, taking great delight in watching his cock pump forcefully in and out from between Tom’s full lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful and tonight, I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you’re gonna be beggin’ me for more.”

Seconds later, his orgasm exploded from deep within his loins and holding Tom’s head firmly in place, he shuddered his release into the warm, inviting mouth. An arrogant smile played over his lips and he grunted in satisfaction as he watched his _toy_ struggle to ingest his salty offering. He had trained his little bitch well and he had eighteen months of pleasure to look forward to before he handed Tom over to _his_ Jefa for the final phase of the operation. Although he would be sad to lose his _bello puto_ , he would not be lonely for long; he would soon find another beautiful, frightened inmate to take his place, continuing the cycle of abuse and Tom would become nothing more than a distant memory.

As the warm, saliferous fluid flooded his throat, Tom screwed his eyes closed and concentrated on not gagging. Inside his head, his mind screamed _no, no, no_ and he desperately tried to push the image of Booker’s horrified face from his thoughts. But he failed dismally and a single tear leaked from the corner of his eye, the salty droplet trickling down his pale cheek. Once again, he had betrayed his lover and he felt the devastating burden of loss as darkness slowly claimed another piece of his soul.

**

_**Saturday January 13th 1990 (9.17 a.m.)** _

Tom leaned over the pool table and squinting through one eye, he lined up his shot. With a gentle tap, he pushed the white cue ball across the green expanse, where it softly ricocheted off his target, sending the 8-ball into the corner pocket. He straightened up and placing his cue on the table, he held out his hand. “That’d be three in a row, pay up,” he chuckled, an attractive smile tilting at the corners of his lips. 

Mosco grinned back and reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and removing three, he tossed them across the table. “You don’t even smoke Hanson. What use is a frajo to you?” 

“Currency,” Tom replied as he carefully tucked the strong smelling cigarettes into his pocket. “You never know when you’ll need a favor.”

Red-hot jealousy coursed through Mosco’s veins, but apart from his fingers tightening their grip around the pool cue in his hand, he remained outwardly calm. The thought of _his_ Tommy going to another inmate for a favor did not sit well with him and his eyes flashed a darker shade of green. “If you need a favor Tommy, all you have to do is ask,” he stated in a cool voice.

Realizing his mistake, Tom quickly backpedaled and rubbing a finger over his top lip, he smiled nervously. “Yeah I know Mosco, I just like having them, you know, ‘cause they’re my winnings.”

When Mosco’s expression relaxed, he slowly exhaled in relief. Moments later, a guard approached and clapped him on the shoulder. “Looks like someone’s finally come to see you Hanson, your name’s on the visitation list.”

Tom’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you sure?” he asked, the sudden excitement he felt evident in the slightly raised pitch of his voice.

Edward Hanley smiled. Tom was a model prisoner and apart from his association with Miguel Mosco, he had proven himself to be a pretty decent guy, which made his job on the Block a hell of a lot easier. “Checked it myself. Someone named Booker has signed in for a visit. Be ready in twenty or you’ll miss out.”

An excited flush stained Tom’s cheeks and turning around, he grinned happily at Mosco. “Did you hear that? He’s finally come to see me!”

The urge to snap the pool cue in his hand and stab the jagged end in Tom’s eye was overwhelming, but Mosco managed to maintain his cool long enough to say, “Have a nice visit,” before turning away and approaching a group of men playing cards.

The news had Tom so caught up in his own elation, he did not notice the animosity in Mosco’s tone, but if he had, it would have sent a shiver of foreboding down his spine because pissing off _el Jefe_ never ended well.

**

_**Saturday January 13th 1990 (10.06 a.m.)** _

The visitors’ room was in stark contrast to the majority of the prison. Children’s drawings adorned the brightly painted walls, giving an air of hope to an otherwise bleak environment. As Tom entered the room, his eyes flitted left to right as he anxiously tried to catch sight of Booker and he jumped slightly when Hanley once again placed a hand on his shoulder. “He’s on the left Hanson, table twenty-three.”

Tom slowly made his way through the cluster of tables, the noise in the room reaching fever pitch as prisoners exchanged hugs and greetings with their loved ones. He kept his eyes straight in front of him, afraid that if he caught a glimpse of his fellow prisoners’ elated expressions, his emotions would get the better of him. He needed to stay calm and focused because he only had forty-five minutes to convince Booker that he still loved him.

As he neared table twenty-three, he saw Booker’s face for the first time in nearly two and a half months and his resolve crumbled. Tears blurred his vision and quickening his step, he reached out and wrapped his arms around the man he adored. There was a moment’s hesitation before two muscular arms circled his waist, but the embrace was tentative. Hoping to gain a more loving response, Tom tightened his hug. “God I’ve missed you,” he whispered against the soft flesh of Booker’s neck. “It’s so fucking good to see you.”

Booker’s arms loosened their hold and gently disengaging himself from Tom’s grasp, he sat back down at the table. Disappointed by the lack of warmth in the greeting, Tom’s happy mood instantly evaporated and pulling out a hard metal chair, he sat down opposite his friend. “So… what took you so long?”

A flash of anger darkened Booker’s eyes and the muscles in his jaw tightened. “Is that _really_ how you’re going to start the conversation?” he asked in a cold voice.

Tom exhaled heavily and resting his head in his hands, he gazed morosely down at the table. “I’m sorry,” he muttered softly, “this isn’t going the way I had hoped. I thought you’d at least be happy to see me.” 

A feeling of regret washed over Booker and reaching out, he gently pulled Tom’s hand away and entwining their fingers together, he gave a tender squeeze. “I’m sorry too and of _course_ I’m happy to see you, I’ve missed you like crazy.”

“Really?” Tom asked, a small hopeful smile brightening his face. “Because I kind of figured you’d abandoned me.”

A soft sigh escaped from between Booker’s lips. “I needed time to get my head around it Tommy. That was one hell of a bombshell you dropped at the courthouse.”

Tom’s shoulders sagged and his lower lip pushed out into a soft pout. “I know… and I’m sorry. But you understand why I did it, right? I _need_ to be punished for what I did because otherwise, the rest of my life will be built on a lie.”

Booker remained silent for several long minutes before replying in a sad voice. “I get it Tommy, I really do… it’s just… I _really_ wish you’d talked to me about it first.”

“Would you have let me go ahead with it if I had?” Tom asked curiously.

A small smile twitched at Booker’s lips. “Probably not.”

Tilting his head on one side, Tom’s lips curled into a cheeky grin. “Sooo then… am I forgiven?”

Booker could not believe he had forgotten how exquisitely beautiful Tom was and he found himself instantly drawn in by his beguiling smile. “Yes baby, you’re forgiven,” he murmured and leaning across the table, he pressed his lips against the soft flesh of Tom’s pout and kissed him lovingly.

The piercing sound of wolf whistles echoed throughout the room and a stony-faced guard quickly approached their table. “Enough of the lovey-dovey crap fellas,” he admonished in a cold voice. “Save it for the outside.”

Unfazed by the guard’s caution, Tom grinned back happily, but if he had known Mosco’s second in command, José Diaz, had witnessed his tender moment with Booker, his cheerful disposition would have vanished as quickly as it had manifested. But he was blissfully unaware and taking both of Booker’s hands in his, he gave the fingers a squeeze. “Tell me everything that’s happened since I last saw you.”

Shaking his head, Booker gazed back with troubled eyes. “No, firstly I want to know if _you’re_ all right. Are they treating you okay Tommy? I mean, no one’s pressuring you in any way are they?”

A sudden weight bore down on Tom’s shoulders. In the few minutes he had spent with Booker, he had completely forgotten his betrayal and the memory stabbed at his heart like a knife. The color drained from his face and he immediately lowered his gaze, unable to meet Booker’s trusting look for fear that he would reveal his infidelity. “I’m fine,” he replied in a rush of words. “It’s actually not that bad in here. I’ve made some friends and even the hacks are okay most of the time.”

Booker’s brow creased into a deep frown and reaching out a hand, he gently tilted up Tom’s chin and stared him in the eyes. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter Tommy,” he muttered softly. “Is someone hurting you?”

Tom’s head shook furiously from side to side whilst attempting to give his lover a reassuring smile. “No Dennis, honestly, everything’s fine. I mean, some inmates have a hard time of it, but I’m not one of them.”

As he studied Tom’s worried face, Booker came to the conclusion that he was hiding something. But even if he was, there was little he could do about it whilst his lover remained incarcerated. He knew the prison code well enough to know that snitching was not an option and so he decided to let the matter drop, at least for the moment. “Okay baby,” he murmured quietly, “but if you ever need to talk, promise me you’ll—”

“Okay, I will,” Tom replied hurriedly and the tight knot of betrayal in his stomach tightened with every deceitful lie that came out of his mouth. He misguidedly figured that what Booker did not know, would not hurt him and once the parole board granted him his release, he would find a way to break it to his lover that he had betrayed him. But for the time being, he needed Mosco’s friendship to survive and he was sure that once Booker understood the truth, he would forgive him.

In the opposite corner of the room, José Diaz listened with one ear to his wife’s cheerful chatter, but his main attention remained focused on Tom and Booker and he could not wait to disclose to Mosco just how affectionate the two men were towards each other. 

A cruel smile played over his thin lips. Once Mosco found out his _puto_ still had eyes for another man, there would be hell to pay and Hanson would find himself suffering a world of pain because _no one_ cheated on el Jefe… no one.


	29. Sweet Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tilting his head on one side, Tom’s lips curled into a cheeky grin. “Sooo then… am I forgiven?”_
> 
> _Booker could not believe he had forgotten how exquisitely beautiful Tom was and he found himself instantly drawn in by his beguiling smile. “Yes baby, you’re forgiven,” he murmured and leaning across the table, he pressed his lips against the soft flesh of Tom’s pout and kissed him lovingly._
> 
> _The piercing sound of wolf whistles echoed throughout the room and a stony-faced guard quickly approached their table. “Enough of the lovey-dovey crap fellas,” he admonished in a cold voice. “Save it for the outside.”_
> 
> _Unfazed by the guard’s caution, Tom grinned back happily, but if he had known Mosco’s second in command, José Diaz, had witnessed his tender moment with Booker, his cheerful disposition would have vanished as quickly as it had manifested. But he was blissfully unaware and taking both of Booker’s hands in his, he gave the fingers a squeeze. “Tell me everything that’s happened since I last saw you.”_
> 
> _Shaking his head, Booker gazed back with troubled eyes. “No, firstly I want to know if you’re all right. Are they treating you okay Tommy? I mean, no one’s pressuring you in any way are they?”_
> 
> _A sudden weight bore down on Tom’s shoulders. In the few minutes he had spent with Booker, he had completely forgotten his betrayal and the memory stabbed at his heart like a knife. The color drained from his face and he immediately lowered his gaze, unable to meet Booker’s trusting look for fear that he would reveal his infidelity. “I’m fine,” he replied in a rush of words. “It’s actually not that bad in here. I’ve made some friends and even the hacks are okay most of the time.”_
> 
> _Booker’s brow creased into a deep frown and reaching out a hand, he gently tilted up Tom’s chin and stared him in the eyes. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter Tommy,” he muttered softly. “Is someone hurting you?”_
> 
> _Tom’s head shook furiously from side to side whilst attempting to give his lover a reassuring smile. “No Dennis, honestly, everything’s fine. I mean, some inmates have a hard time of it, but I’m not one of them.”_
> 
> _As he studied Tom’s worried face, Booker came to the conclusion that he was hiding something. But even if he was, there was little he could do about it whilst his lover remained incarcerated. He knew the prison code well enough to know that snitching was not an option and so he decided to let the matter drop, at least for the moment. “Okay baby,” he murmured quietly, “but if you ever need to talk, promise me you’ll—”_
> 
> _“Okay, I will,” Tom replied hurriedly and the tight knot of betrayal in his stomach tightened with every deceitful lie that came out of his mouth. He misguidedly figured that what Booker did not know, would not hurt him and once the parole board granted him his release, he would find a way to break it to his lover that he had betrayed him. But for the time being, he needed Mosco’s friendship to survive and he was sure that once Booker understood the truth, he would forgive him._
> 
> _In the opposite corner of the room, José Diaz listened with one ear to his wife’s cheerful chatter, but his main attention remained focused on Tom and Booker and he could not wait to disclose to Mosco just how affectionate the two men were towards each other._
> 
> _A cruel smile played over his thin lips. Once Mosco found out his puto still had eyes for another man, there would be hell to pay and Hanson would find himself suffering a world of pain because no one cheated on el Jefe… no one._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170024673/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Saturday January 13th 1990 (10.01 p.m.)** _

After Booker’s visit, Tom spent the rest of his Saturday walking around in a happiness-fueled daze. He pushed all thoughts of his betrayal from his mind and concentrated on the invigorating knowledge that his and Dennis’ relationship was once again on track. They had spent the entire forty-five minutes talking non-stop about their future together and Booker had even intimated that closer to Tom’s release date, he would start looking for a larger apartment. Everything Tom had hoped for was finally coming true and he had a strong gut feeling that despite his _relationship_ with Mosco, he would get the fairytale ending to what had been a harrowing few years. The next fifteen and a half months of incarceration did not seem as daunting as it had prior to Booker’s visit and he truly believed he would walk out the prison gates free from the burden of his past, but without losing sight of his guilt. Penhall’s death would always haunt him and the knowledge that his dereliction of duty was the cause of his best friend's death had not been an easy admission to accept. However, with a sober mind, he was finally taking responsibility for his actions and knowing that he once again had a supportive partner by his side, he was, for the first time in years, confident about his future. It had been one fucked up roller coaster ride, but in the not too far off distance, he saw a smooth, flat highway leading to his and Booker’s Shangri-La and he felt sure that they would spend the rest of their lives together on a journey of discovery.

Therefore, the hours until lockdown had passed in a blur of daydreams and thoughts of a future that no longer seemed unattainable. But when the lights dimmed, plunging the cell into a shadowy darkness, he suddenly remembered Mosco’s early morning promise to _fuck him so hard, he’d be beggin’ for more_ and a feeling of shame washed over him. He was eagerly planning a future with Booker whilst allowing another man to fuck him and no matter how hard he tried to justify his reasons to himself, he still felt like a cheating bastard. For a fraction of a second, he considered telling Mosco that their _relationship_ was over, but he knew it would be suicide. Without the Latino’s protection, he would become an easy target for every other sick, domineering pervert in D Block and the thought of daily rapes by dozens of different men terrified him. What he had with Mosco was consensual and even though he had not initially sought out the attentions of _el Jefe_ , he did feel a certain attraction towards the handsome man. However, he was astute enough to know the foundation of their relationship was built purely on Mosco’s arrogant desire to dominate and _his_ desperate need to feel loved, as well as the basic human condition to survive in a place where the inhabitants preyed upon the vulnerable. But what he did not realize was the unhealthy level of Mosco’s jealousy and possessiveness that bordered on insanity. Unbeknownst to him, he was a prize, a beautiful trophy to show off and his willingness to submit only helped to secure the Latino’s ranking as _Jefe_. He was nothing more than a pawn in Mosco’s twisted game of power and to wrong him would mean certain physical torture, or, at the very worst, death.

So when he finished his nightly ablutions and crawled into his narrow bunk, he fully expected Mosco to join him, and as the minutes slipped interminably by, he lay rigid in his bed, waiting for the telltale squeak of the springs that indicated Mosco was on the move. But as the familiar terrified cries chorused throughout the Block, he heard a soft snoring from above and relaxing against his lumpy mattress, he exhaled the breath he had been holding. For the first time in weeks, he was free to fall asleep without the deep throbbing pain inside his anus reminding him of his betrayal. Mosco had a voracious sexual appetite and it was not unusual for him to seek gratification several times a day, so for Tom to have a peaceful night to himself was ecstasy in an environment where privacy was virtually non-existent. Closing his eyes, he blocked out the haunting pleas of the unfortunate and dreamed about his new life with Booker. His luck was finally changing and life was once again, good.

**

_**Monday January 15th 1990 (2.15 a.m.)** _

When impatient hands yanked down Tom’s blanket, exposing his bare skin to the cool morning air, he let out a groan of annoyance and in a sleep induced fugue-like state, he clumsily attempted to cover himself. “Aw c’mon Mosco," he mumbled sleepily, "it’s the middle of the night. Can’t you wait till morning?”

A stinging slap to his face quickly brought him back to full consciousness and sitting up, he threw his cellie a wounded look. “What the hell?”

A hint of a grin played over Mosco’s lips, but his eyes remained cold. “Time for some lovin’, _Tommy_.”

The tone in Mosco’s voice when he spoke his name sent a shiver of foreboding down Tom’s spine and the hairs on his arms stood to attention. Even in his half-awake state, he had the distinct impression that he had somehow managed to piss off his cellmate, but he had no idea what he had done. Everything had appeared fine when they had gone to bed on Saturday night, the only difference had been Mosco’s sudden disinterest in sex. Sunday had been a normal day spent playing cards and socializing with the other inmates and he had not noticed any difference in the Latino’s attitude towards him. But now, in the early hours of Monday morning, his cellmate’s enthusiasm for sex had obviously returned because he was erect and ready to go, but this time, there was a hint of malice in his voice, signaling that he was _not_ happy. Something had happened, but Tom was clueless, he was so caught up in his own happiness he did not suspect that Mosco was harboring a deep-seated jealousy over his rekindled relationship with Booker. If he had, the slight concern he felt in his gut would have turned into full-blown panic.

“Nuh-uh,” Mosco sneered when Tom sat on the edge of the bed in readiness to take the erect appendage into his mouth. “Get up, drop your shorts and bend over the basin, I wanna fuck you.”

The last thing Tom wanted was penetrative sex with Mosco. Now that he and Booker had repaired their relationship, he wanted to save himself for the man he loved. However, he realized his choices were limited. Refusal was not an option, all he could do was submit and hope that Mosco was not too brutal. But the undertone of cruelty in the Latino’s voice suggested the sex would be painful and demeaning and he remained sitting on the bed, his muscles frozen in fear.

“What are you waiting for Chico?” Mosco murmured in a teasing voice. “Do you want me to wine and dine you first? Sorry, I ain’t that kinda guy… now get to your fucking feet and bare that pretty ass. You don’t want me askin’ you again.”

The thinly veiled threat was not lost on Tom and rising unsteadily to his feet, he flashed Mosco what he hoped was a beguiling smile. He knew his cellmate was angry and if he were to spare himself a painful and humiliating fucking, he needed to stroke Mosco’s ego and play the part of subservient lover. “Do you want me to suck you first,” he asked in a soft voice, his dark eyes peering up seductively through his long, thick lashes. 

But Mosco was nobody’s fool and his green eyes narrowed into slits. “No jodas conmigo, _(Don’t fuck with me,)”_ he whispered in a low, menacing voice. “Nadie traiciona al Jefe… nadie. _(Nobody betrays the boss… nobody.)”_

Tom had no idea what the words meant but the intonation was unmistakable. He was in deep shit and he would have to swallow his fear and face his punishment like a man.

He had no choice… he was in for a savage fucking and there was no escape.

**

_**Monday January 15th 1990 (4.39 a.m.)** _

Gentle fingers brushed Tom’s sleep-tousled hair from his eyes before lightly trailing down his smooth cheek. The sudden contact yanked him from a troubled sleep and his eyes flew open as he instinctively shrank away from the touch. When he saw his cellmate sitting next to him, his dark eyes filled with fear. "Please Mosco, not again,” he whispered, his voice rising in panic. “I’m sore and I need time to—”

“No, no,” Mosco crooned softly and standing up, he held out his hand. “Stand up mi chico precioso _(my precious boy)_ , I’ve got a special surprise for you.” 

Although wary, Tom knew better than to refuse and grasping Mosco’s outstretched hand, he rose unsteadily to his feet. His backside throbbed painfully and when he realized he had been bleeding, the dried blood staining the back of his boxers and adhering the material to his skin, his face flushed with embarrassment. In the space of only a few hours his world had come smashing down around him and he only had himself to blame. He had allowed himself to celebrate life in a place where life did not exist and his mind had flown to the dizzying heights of elation, only to crash back to earth with a resounding thud when Mosco reminded him what he _really_ was… a worthless whore. The Latino had brutally taken what he wanted without the aid of lubrication and Tom now bore the scars. As the pain had ripped through his body, memories of his rape months before had flooded his mind and he was thankful he did not have to endure the panic that he would suffocate within the lumpy folds of his mattress. At least when he was standing up, he could breathe and as his jagged breath caught in his throat, he had wondered why Mosco’s attitude towards him had suddenly changed. Although his cellmate had never been a gentle lover, he had never caused him unnecessary pain before and the confusion in his mind had only added to his misery.

Staring down at the gray cement floor, he struggled to keep the tears from his eyes. “Please don’t hurt me,” he whispered, “I’ll do anything you want but I can’t do _that_ again, I just—”

“Shh,” Mosco murmured and pressing a finger against Tom’s lips, he gave him a tender smile. “I’m sorry I hurt you, I was having a _really_ bad day.”

The Latino’s words did little to alleviate Tom’s fears, but when gentle fingers stroked his cock, his body instantly reacted to the caress; he wanted to feel pleasure instead of the pain burning inside of him. “Mmm, you like that don’t you mi hermoso tesoro _(my beautiful treasure)_ , do you want Papá to make it all better?”

Unable to resist the thrilling sensation of the tender caress, Tom closed his eyes and gave into the titillation. “ _Ohhh_ ,” he breathed as his boxers slipped to the floor exposing his cock to the cool morning air. Seconds later, Mosco dropped to his knees and he felt warm breath whispering over the sensitive tip of his cockhead, the erotic sensation eliciting a low groan from between his lips. “Kiss it Mosco,” he breathed softly, his legs trembling in excited anticipation. “Please kiss it.”

Mosco’s stomach knotted in fury at the audacity of Tom’s request. _No one_ told el Jefe what to do, let alone a worthless whore like Tom Hanson. But to execute his plan, he needed to swallow his pride and resist the urge to bite down on the erect cock hovering in front of his face. So without further hesitation, he took a deep breath and ignoring the anger boiling inside him, he gently wrapped his fingers around the base of Tom’s cock and lightly brushed his lips over the tip.

“ _Yesss_ ,” Tom moaned, his fingers gently tugging at Mosco’s hair. “Again Mosco, again.”

A sinister grin marred Mosco's beautiful face and he once again pressed his lips against the tip before stopping to suck tenderly on the smooth cockhead, his moist tongue swirling around the hard coronal ridge. As Tom’s hips gently rocked forward, he parted his lips and taking him into his mouth, he concentrated on giving the best blowjob he knew how. Soft mews sounded from above and opening his throat, he permitted his _toy_ to fuck his mouth. He had given Tom blowjobs before, but never had he allowed him to take control and the disrespectful behavior had him churning inside. But it was the only way to exact his revenge and he was prepared to stomach the humiliation just to put Tom back in his place.

The exquisite sensation of warm lips wrapped around his cock had Tom lost in the pleasure of the oral stimulation. But as he pumped his cock in and out of Mosco’s hot mouth, a bright flash suddenly impaired his vision and he instinctively shielded his eyes. "What the fuck?!" he exclaimed and squinting his eyes, he pushed Mosco away and stared blindly at the bars of the cell where the light had emanated from. His heart hammered fearfully in his chest and when a loud whine cut through the silence, he recognized the sound of a camera flash warming up. "WHO THE HELL'S OUT THERE?" he yelled, his panic intensifying with every passing second. When the camera flashed again, his hands flew to his groin, covering his erection, but he knew it was too late, the photographer had caught him naked and erect for a second time.

A hand touched his shoulder and yelping in surprise, he spun around. Mosco’s face was a mask of fury and stepping forward, he shielded Tom’s naked body from the prying lens. “BASTARDO!” he screamed. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor, the sound slowly fading as the voyeur disappeared. Tom passed a shaky hand over his mouth and pulling up his boxers, he pressed his lips against Mosco’s ear. “Who was that?” he whispered, his voice trembling from the shock of the unexpected encounter.

Mosco turned around and placed a comforting arm around Tom’s shoulders. “One of the hacks likes to take happy snaps for his own perverted pleasure,” he answered in a strained voice. “We haven’t figured out who it is, but when we do—”

“Jesus,” Tom muttered, the pleasure of the oral stimulation now a distant memory. “How long has this been going on?”

Walking over to the hand basin, Mosco turned on the faucet and splashed cold water over his face. “For as long as I’ve been here,” he replied solemnly. “It happens to all of us at some time or another.”

Tom lay down on his bunk and pulled the covers protectively over his quivering body. “Shouldn’t we tell the Warden?”

Climbing onto his bunk, Mosco stretched out and folded his arms behind his head. “Yeah, ‘cause he _really_ cares what happens to us presos _(prisoners)_ ,” he snorted. “Forget about it Hanson, it’s just part of life on the Block.”

When Tom did not answer, Mosco suppressed a laugh. He considered himself worthy of an Oscar, his performance had been outstanding and Tom did not suspect a thing. Bribing Officer Howell to take the incriminating photos had been a piece of cake and it would not be long before he once again, exclusively owned his beautiful whore.

**

_**Wednesday January 17th 1990 (7.08 p.m.)** _

With a weary sigh, Booker flopped down onto the couch. Picking up the remote, he flicked on the TV and began to open his mail. He tossed the electric bill onto the coffee table with barely a glance, along with an invitation to a work colleague’s house warming party. Picking up the final plain brown envelope, he noticed it had no return address and turning it over in his hand, he did not recognize the untidy scrawl. With his curiosity now piqued, he ripped it open and two Polaroids tumbled into his lap.

It took a moment for his mind to register what his eyes were seeing and when the heartbreaking reality finally filtered through, he let out a strangled cry. Jumping to his feet, the photographs fell to the floor, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not tear his gaze from the offensive image of an unknown man’s lips wrapped around Tom’s cock, the rapturous expression on his lover’s face forever captured in time. His eyes flitted to the second photo, this one a full frontal of Tom’s naked body, his erection jutting proudly outward and his face partly covered by his hand. The unknown man stood behind him, his lip curled into a satisfied smirk and his handsome face relaxed despite the unexpected interruption.

Hot bile rose in Booker’s throat and stumbling into the bathroom, he only just made it to the toilet before throwing up into the bowl. Once again, Tom had played him for a fool, betraying him in the cruelest of ways with a man who was guilty of God only knew what heinous crime and as he spewed up the contents of his last meal, he knew that this time there would be no forgiveness. It was over and as far as he was concerned, Tom Hanson could burn in hell.

**

_**Saturday January 20th 1990 (9.39 a.m.)** _

With the memory of the photographic attack still fresh in his mind, Tom spent the rest of the week more on edge than usual. He studied each guard’s face, desperately trying to figure out which hack was perverted enough to commit such an act of voyeuristic treachery. But none of the officers showed any sign that they were the perpetrator and eventually, he came to the unsatisfying conclusion that he might just go to his grave never knowing who the guilty party was.

When Saturday finally came around, his mood lifted. Booker had promised to visit him every week and he could not wait to feel his lover’s arms wrapped around him, absorbing the stress from his body with their strong, protective warmth. 

He lined up with the other prisoners lucky enough to have a visitor and waited patiently for a guard to escort them to the visitors’ room. But when Officer Ryan Howell approached, he grabbed Tom by the arm and pulled him from the line. “Back to the rec room Hanson, your name’s not on the list.”

Tom stared back in surprise. "What do you mean I'm not on the list? Dennis promised me he'd visit."

Howell smirked and holding his hand up to his face, he mimed taking a photo. "Click, click. I guess he didn't like the pictures I sent him."

The color drained from Tom’s face and he stared at the guard in disbelief. "It was _you?”_ he asked incredulously, the pitch of his voice rising as his anger intensified. “Why?! Why would you do that?! Why would you send him those photos?!" 

"I was bored,” Howell smirked, his eyes flashing with amusement, “and I figured he'd want to know that his boyfriend's a whore."

A hot, blind rage consumed Tom’s mind and any sense of self-preservation he had left was instantly consumed in the embers. All he could think about was exacting revenge on the man who had ruined his life and charging forward, he launched himself at Howell and tackled him to the ground. “You sonofabitch!” he screamed hysterically, his fists raining vicious blows on the guard’s soft body. "I'll fucking kill you! I’ll fucking _kill you!"_

A chorus of excited yells added to the confusion, the inmates’ chants growing steadily louder. _“Woo Hanson… Give it to ‘im Tommy, fuck that motherfucker UP… TOM-MY! TOM-MY! TOM-MY!"_

Moments later, a sharp pain exploded in Tom’s kidneys and he crumpled to the floor. But the adrenalin coursing through his body masked his pain and scrambling to his feet, he turned and faced his baton-wielding attacker. “C’mon Hanley,” he taunted in a low voice, his fingers beckoning at the frightened guard. “Let’s see what you’ve got you sonofa—”

But he did not get the chance to finish his sentence. Two burley hacks knocked him to the floor, easily restraining him with brutal blows to his head and torso. Ignoring Hanley’s offer of help, Howell clambered to his feet and ramming his hat back on his head, he straightened up to his full height and attempted to reclaim his dignity in front of both the inmates and his peers. “TAKE HIM TO THE HOLE!” he yelled and he watched with growing pleasure as his co-workers dragged Tom's bloody body kicking and screaming to the place the inmates referred to as hell on earth… solitary confinement.


	30. Touched by the Hand of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is heavy on the narrative. However, I thought it important to describe the real horror of solitary confinement so that you better understand Tom's changing personality in the chapters to come.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Saturday January 20th 1990 (9.39 a.m.)_
> 
> _With the memory of the photographic attack still fresh in his mind, Tom spent the rest of the week more on edge than usual. He studied each guard’s face, desperately trying to figure out which hack was perverted enough to commit such an act of voyeuristic treachery. But none of the officers showed any sign that they were the perpetrator and eventually, he came to the unsatisfying conclusion that he might just go to his grave never knowing who the guilty party was._
> 
> _When Saturday finally came around, his mood lifted. Booker had promised to visit him every week and he could not wait to feel his lover’s arms wrapped around him, absorbing the stress from his body with their strong, protective warmth._
> 
> _He lined up with the other prisoners lucky enough to have a visitor and waited patiently for a guard to escort them to the visitors’ room. But when Officer Ryan Howell approached, he grabbed Tom by the arm and pulled him from the line. “Back to the rec room Hanson, your name’s not on the list.”_
> 
> _Tom stared back in surprise. "What do you mean I'm not on the list? Dennis promised me he'd visit."_
> 
> _Howell smirked and holding his hand up to his face, he mimed taking a photo. "Click, click. I guess he didn't like the pictures I sent him."_
> 
> _The color drained from Tom’s face and he stared at the guard in disbelief. "It was you?” he asked incredulously, the pitch of his voice rising as his anger intensified. “Why?! Why would you do that?! Why would you send him those photos?!"_
> 
> _"I was bored,” Howell smirked, his eyes flashing with amusement, “and I figured he'd want to know that his boyfriend's a whore."_
> 
> _A hot, blind rage consumed Tom’s mind and any sense of self-preservation he had left was instantly consumed in the embers. All he could think about was exacting revenge on the man who had ruined his life and charging forward, he launched himself at Howell and tackled him to the ground. “You sonofabitch!” he screamed hysterically, his fists raining vicious blows on the guard’s soft body. "I'll fucking kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!"_
> 
> _A chorus of excited yells added to the confusion, the inmates’ chants growing steadily louder. “Woo Hanson… Give it to ‘im Tommy, fuck that motherfucker UP… TOM-MY! TOM-MY! TOM-MY!"_
> 
> _Moments later, a sharp pain exploded in Tom’s kidneys and he crumpled to the floor. But the adrenalin coursing through his body masked his pain and scrambling to his feet, he turned and faced his baton-wielding attacker. “C’mon Hanley,” he taunted in a low voice, his fingers beckoning at the frightened guard. “Let’s see what you’ve got you sonofa—”_
> 
> _But he did not get the chance to finish his sentence. Two burley hacks knocked him to the floor, easily restraining him with brutal blows to his head and torso. Ignoring Hanley’s offer of help, Howell clambered to his feet and ramming his hat back on his head, he straightened up to his full height and attempted to reclaim his dignity in front of both the inmates and his peers. “TAKE HIM TO THE HOLE!” he yelled and he watched with growing pleasure as his co-workers dragged Tom's bloody body kicking and screaming to the place the inmates referred to as hell on earth… solitary confinement._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35809565262/in/album-72157684147662000/)

The key had turned in the lock on the lid of hell and the eerie muted caterwauling of those whose tortured souls had finally slipped into the realm of insanity echoed continuously off the dirty prison walls. Stripped of their clothing, their dignity and eventually their minds, the unfortunate men confined to the wing known by guards and inmates alike as _Hades_ , spent twenty-four hours a day locked inside their tiny six by twelve foot chambers; their only comfort a thin, foul smelling mattress that offered them a modicum of relief from the cold cement floor. A stainless steel toilet with a hand basin attached to the side stood in one corner and an open steel shower that emitted cold water for ten minutes, once a week, took up the remaining precious space next to it. Although the cell was windowless, cold tendrils of air wafted under the heavy steel doors, chilling the men's bare flesh with its icy touch and adding another level of discomfort to their pain and misery. Although the inmates were supposed to receive a hot meal twice a day, the schedule was not habitual. If the guards were in a good mood, a tray would magically appear through a small slot at the bottom of the door. But the rations were mostly inedible; the cold, lumpy gruel often covered in human hair or globules of saliva. However, as stomach churning as the food was, the men looked forward to the sound of the tray skidding across the scuffed cement floor. They often went days without eating and any change to their routine was a welcomed relief to the monotony of their wretched existence. The only contact with another human being was if an inmate was fortunate enough to have a guard escort them to the six-foot square outdoor _pen_ that served as an exercise yard. But the outings were scarce and they soon realized that their only company was the constant muffled screams of those around them who were steadily losing their minds.

**

At first, Tom thought he was strong enough to cope with the isolation. He spent his days exercising as best he could in the cramped quarters and to keep himself amused, he recited verbatim the Three Stooges movies he had watched with Penhall and now knew by heart. The other prisoners would hear cries of _“Burnt toast and a rotten egg?”_ _“Whatcha want that for?”_ _“I got a tapeworm and that’s good enough for him!”_ and whilst most had no idea what he was yelling about, those still of sound mind came to the sad conclusion that he too was losing his marbles. But for Tom, it gave him a reprieve from the relentless agonized screams that reverberated around the concrete walls day and night for hours on end. He was determined not to succumb to the suffering of those around him, but he was deluding himself. He was no different to any other prisoner who had forcefully been isolated for weeks, months and sometimes years, deprived of even the most basic of human contact. All the men started their sentence hell bent on proving that _they_ would not be the one to crack, that _they_ had the constitution to withstand the mental torture and that _they_ would show the hacks they could not be broken. However, the sad reality was very different. Human beings, by design, are social creatures so when cut off from their peers, there are obvious psychological breakdowns and Tom was proving no different.

He was slowly losing his mind.

First came the repetitive pacing; four and a half steps from one side of the cell to the other at its widest and two and a half steps at its narrowest. It became an obsession, he walked back and forth for hours, muttering the numbers aloud, never faltering in his narrative. He committed the number of steps per day to memory and each morning, he made a vow to break the previous day’s record. But soon, the incessant counting started to monopolize his every thought and even when he lay on his dirty mattress and tried to sleep, he continued to calculate imaginary steps in his mind. It was during this time he stopped showering, not because he did not want to stay clean, but because his confused brain became so focused on pacing the floor, he stopped noticing the water that trickled from the shower head once a week. But as the weeks turned into a month, the numbers whirring maniacally around in his mind began to make his head hurt and it was then that he turned to sexual gratification. The world that existed in his mind suddenly became a reality and wrapping his fingers around his cock, he came to believe that it was Booker jerking him off and he tugged at himself until he was sore, sometimes reaching orgasm, sometimes not. However, unbeknownst to him, he was not the only one gaining pleasure from his own hand. Word soon traveled amongst the guards and soon he was providing a free peep show to every perverted hack on the Block, his voracious sexual appetite seemingly never-ending. It too became a repetitive act, but after awhile, it lost all meaning and eventually, the illusion started to fade and the realization that Booker had deserted him sent him spiraling into the next phase; slamming his head repeatedly against the wall. The banging became a new ritualistic obsession, except this time the consequences were more serious. Each time his head ricocheted off the wall, Dennis' name would tumble from between his parched lips and it did not take long for a large gash to open up on the back of his head. As the wound became deeper, blood trickled down his neck, caking his naked flesh with its crimson flow and giving him a frightening appearance. However, the guards who peeked through the peephole barely raised an eyebrow. They had seen it all before and they knew it would end once the pain became too extreme. Then the screaming would start and continue on until the prisoner's mind snapped completely and he lay in a catatonic state for the duration of his sentence, and sometimes beyond. It was the continuous cycle of life in the solitary confinement wing and the hacks became immune to the pathetic dehumanization of their charges because, after all, there was no punishment without pain.

**

_**55 days in solitary - Friday March 16th 1990 (4.09 p.m.)** _

The sickening screech of metal on metal woke Tom from a fitful sleep and as the door of his cell slowly opened, he immediately curled into a protective ball. When light flooded the tiny space, he instinctively shielded his eyes against the invasive brightness and a soft whimper of fear sounded from between his chapped lips. Thirty-four days had passed since he had last seen another human being and confusion mixed with rising panic caused his heart to hammer painfully in his chest. He squinted against the harshness of the light, desperate to see who or what had entered the hell that had become his asylum. But all he could distinguish was a dark, shapeless figure and when something soft touched his filthy, naked flesh, he yelped in fright and flapped his arms uselessly in front of him in a pathetic attempt to ward off the unseen evil. Immediately the faceless silhouette's mocking laughter filled the tiny cell before a loud voice instructed, “Stand up and put your clothes on Hanson, the Warden’s here to see you and he don’t wanna look at your junk.”

Tom remained motionless, his bewildered mind unable to comprehend the command. Seconds later, a heavy hand slapped him forcefully on the side of the head and he cowered further into the corner. “DID YOU HEAR ME BITCH?” _The Shadowman_ boomed. “Put your fucking clothes on and stand the fuck UP! The Warden ain’t got time for your sniveling bullshit, got it?”

Stunned by the unexpected contact, Tom rose unsteadily to his feet and quickly pulled on boxers, t-shirt, jeans, and a ripped hoodie. The material rubbed against his sensitive skin, his flesh no longer accustomed to the irritation of the course fibers and he pulled awkwardly at his crotch. But a rough hand immediately grabbed him by the arm and cruelly squeezed his thin wrist. “Quit playin' with yourself and stand still or so help me God, you'll spend another month down here.”

Pain flared in Tom’s wrist, but he bit down on his lower lip and remained silent. _The Shadowman’s_ thunderous voice assaulted his senses and he was having difficulty comprehending what was happening. His eyes remained blinded by the light and he desperately wanted to cover his ears and mute the unaccustomed sound of _The Shadowman's_ voice, but he was too frightened to move. _The Shadowman_ had told him to remain motionless and so he obliged because he no longer had a mind of his own, in fact, he barely had a mind; he was hanging onto his last vestige of sanity by a thread. 

Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, their purposeful steps signaling the arrival of _The Warden_ and Tom attempted to push down the rising fear that threatened to erupt in the form of a panic-stricken scream. The interruption to his routine of solitude and silence had him physically shaking in terror, his addled mind unable to cope with the unfamiliar situation. All he wanted was to curl up in the corner of what he now considered his _home_ and comfort himself in the only way he knew how, with sexual gratification. But he understood enough to know that first, he had to see _The Warden_ and once the meeting was over, then maybe they would shut the door and leave him alone with his madness.

A whispered conversation between _The Shadowman_ and _The Warden_ took place for several minutes, but after spending nearly two months in isolation, Tom’s hypersensitive hearing distinguished every word they were saying. However, although he could _hear_ the words, his mind hovered between confusion and a paralyzing fear and he was unable to comprehend their meaning. Therefore, he remained motionless and stared silently at the floor until a deafening voice penetrated through the thick fog of his consciousness. “TURN AND FACE THE WARDEN, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”

Tom shuffled in a half circle and lifting his gaze, he stared at the man who ran California’s largest penitentiary. He attempted to smile because somewhere in his subconscious he figured it was the polite thing to do. But it had been so long since his lips had formed a smile, his mouth twitched into a contorted grimace, transforming his beautiful features into a macabre mask of impending lunacy. However, despite the horrific sight of Tom's contorted face staring back at him, his neck caked with dry blood, Warden Henry Simpson’s wizened face remained impassive. He had worked within the prison system for thirty years and the plights of the inmates rarely moved him. To be an effective chief administrative officer at one of the largest prisons in the country, he had learned many years ago to harden his heart and view the prisoners under his charge as sub-human rather than as ensouled beings. To do so made it easier to go home to his wife and children and live a normal life outside of the walls of the penitentiary. If he allowed himself to feel compassion and view the men as his peers, he feared he too, would spiral towards madness.

Taking a step closer towards Tom, he wrinkled his nose in disgust as the pungent aroma of stale sweat and semen assaulted his nostrils. Prisoner TZ988 had obviously stopped showering weeks ago and the stench was overpowering, making it difficult not to gag. But he maintained an outward composure and swallowing deeply, he spoke in a loud, flat voice. “Prisoner Hanson, you have had sufficient time on your own to reflect on your sins. Is there anything you would like to say?”

Unaccustomed to someone speaking in such close proximity, the strident resonance of _The Warden’s_ voice aggravated Tom’s eardrums and he flinched at the sound, his shoulders hunching protectively as his brow creased in confusion. “Sins?” he rasped in bewilderment. “I um… I don’t remember… sins?”

Warden Simpson emitted a heavy sigh. It was not uncommon for a solitary confinement inmate to lose touch with the reality of their transgressions and completely forget why they were serving time in the hole. But for the Warden, an inmate who did not remember his crime was not worthy of absolution and if Tom did not verbally repent he had no choice but to leave him in _Hades_ indefinitely. However, he was feeling in a charitable mood and so he gave him a gentle prompt. “Do you remember Officer Howell?”

“Howell?” Tom muttered softly, his face screwed up in concentration and his hands balled into tight fists as he desperately willed his damaged mind to cooperate and remember what it was he was supposed to know. “Officer Howell… he… he…”

 _SNAP!_ It was as though a switch had flicked on in his brain and a vision of Howell’s sneering face flashed into his mind and his hands clenched so tightly, his nails bit painfully into the tender flesh of his palms. He started to speak, to tell Simpson what Howell had done and how he had ruined his relationship with Booker, but a brief flash of clarity stopped him. Now more than ever he needed to pull himself together and concentrate because although he did not fully understand the consequences of his actions, a little voice inside his head whispered that if he said the wrong thing, he would never see Booker again. Therefore, he closed his eyes and pushing down all the anger that was bubbling to the surface, he focused on clearing his mind. If he had any chance of holding onto his sanity, he needed to get out of the hell he was living in and start rebuilding his life as best he could inside D Block, however awful that might be.

Running his tongue over his cracked lips, he opened his eyes and lifting his head, he peered out through his greasy bangs. “He told me I didn’t have a visitor,” he croaked, “and I hit him because… because I was upset. I’m sorry, I hope he’s okay.”

Simpson studied Tom’s pale face for several long minutes before coming to his decision and turning to address his officer, he spoke in a loud voice. “He’s served his time, take him back to D Block.” 

The guard nodded and turning on his heel, Simpson strode from the cold, damp cell, leaving Tom bewildered and terrified at the thought of facing the brutality of general population after living so long with only his own damaged mind for company.


	31. Bright Lights and Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Warden Simpson emitted a heavy sigh. It was not uncommon for a solitary confinement inmate to lose touch with the reality of their transgressions and completely forget why they were serving time in the hole. But for the Warden, an inmate who did not remember his crime was not worthy of absolution and if Tom did not verbally repent he had no choice but to leave him in Hades indefinitely. However, he was feeling in a charitable mood and so he gave him a gentle prompt. “Do you remember Officer Howell?”_
> 
> _“Howell?” Tom muttered softly, his face screwed up in concentration and his hands balled into tight fists as he desperately willed his damaged mind to cooperate and remember what it was he was supposed to know. “Officer Howell… he… he…”_
> 
> _SNAP! It was as though a switch had flicked on in his brain and a vision of Howell’s sneering face flashed into his mind and his hands clenched so tightly, his nails bit painfully into the tender flesh of his palms. He started to speak, to tell Simpson what Howell had done and how he had ruined his relationship with Booker, but a brief flash of clarity stopped him. Now more than ever he needed to pull himself together and concentrate because although he did not fully understand the consequences of his actions, a little voice inside his head whispered that if he said the wrong thing, he would never see Booker again. Therefore, he closed his eyes and pushing down all the anger that was bubbling to the surface, he focused on clearing his mind. If he had any chance of holding onto his sanity, he needed to get out of the hell he was living in and start rebuilding his life as best he could inside D Block, however awful that might be._
> 
> _Running his tongue over his cracked lips, he opened his eyes and lifting his head, he peered out through his greasy bangs. “He told me I didn’t have a visitor,” he croaked, “and I hit him because… because I was upset. I’m sorry, I hope he’s okay.”_
> 
> _Simpson studied Tom’s pale face for several long minutes before coming to his decision and turning to address his officer, he spoke in a loud voice. “He’s served his time, take him back to D Block.”_
> 
> _The guard nodded and turning on his heel, Simpson strode from the cold, damp cell, leaving Tom bewildered and terrified at the thought of facing the brutality of general population after living so long with only his own damaged mind for company._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170024343/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Friday March 16th 1990 (4.28 p.m.)** _

The loud, raucous laughter ringing in Tom’s ears had the same effect on his nerves as fingernails scraping down a chalkboard and he visibly cringed as the sound became louder. The two months in solitary had taken a toll on his body and he lurched unsteadily on his feet, the muscles in his legs unaccustomed to exercise and his eyes still sensitive to the harsh fluorescent light. He felt overwhelmed by the sounds and smells that invaded his senses and he instinctively placed his hands over his ears in a futile effort to block out the noise. Perspiration soaked his clothing, accentuating the already unpleasant smell wafting from his unwashed body and a hot flush preceded the nausea that rose from his stomach. He struggled valiantly to control his weakened body, but as he entered the recreation area, his head started to spin and with a soft grunt, his eyes rolled back and he slipped unconscious to the floor.

Silence filled the room and every inmate stopped what they were doing to focus their attention on the prone figure on the floor. With an irritated sigh, the escorting guard kicked out with his foot, his boot connecting heavily with Tom’s stomach. “Get up Hanson,” he growled. “I ain’t got time for your amateur dramatics.”

“Mierda! _(Shit!)”_ Mosco murmured and pushing through the crowd of curious onlookers, he approached the annoyed hack with a smile. “Leave him with me Officer Jacobs, I’ll take care of him.”

Jacobs eyed Mosco up and down before deciding he did not really care what happened to Tom, as long as he did not have to deal with it. “Get him cleaned up Mosco, he’s stinkin’ the place up.”

Mosco gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement and locking eyes with Diaz, he motioned towards Tom. “Help me get him to the shower.”

With the excitement now over, the inmates returned to their various activities and once again, the room filled with loud chatter. Diaz pushed through the crowd of men and gently nudged Tom with the toe of his boot. “Do you think he’s gone loco?”

A glimmer of sadness flashed in Mosco’s large emerald green eyes, but the look vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I hope not,” he muttered and squatting down, he gave Tom’s shoulders a gentle shake. “Hey Tommy, wakey, wakey.”

Tom’s eyelids slowly fluttered open and he gazed up at Mosco in confusion. “W-Where am I?”

Mosco cast a worried glance at Diaz before focusing his attention back on Tom. “You’re in prison Tommy. You remember me don’t you?”

“Oh…” Tom murmured softly, his eyelids once again fluttering closed, “I thought I was in heaven.”

Diaz snorted in amusement, but his expression quickly sobered when his _Jefe_ threw him an angry look. “Sorry,” he muttered and shoving his hands in his pockets, he gazed down at Tom, “it’s just, how could anyone think this agujero de mierda _(shithole)_ could be heaven?”

“Maybe because he’s been living in hell,” Mosco muttered. “C’mon, help me get him to his feet.”

After two months in isolation, Tom barely weighed one-hundred and thirty pounds and it took Mosco and Diaz little effort to pick him up off the floor and carry him into the shower room. Sitting him down on one of the broken wooden benches, Mosco addressed Diaz in a low, conspiratorial voice. “I want some privacy, no one comes in here… entiendes? _(understand?)”_

A cruel smirk curled at Diaz’s thin lips. “Yeah Jefe, I understand. Be gentle with him, he’ll be as tight as Virgen María _(Virgin Mary_ ) after all that time alone.”

Mosco ignored the insult against the Blessed Virgin and focusing his attention on Tom, he waited for Diaz to leave before crouching down and placing a gentle hand against his cellmate’s pale cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then you can eat something, you’re skin an’ bones mi chico hermoso _(my beautiful boy)_.”

Tom sat silently as Mosco removed his t-shirt and hoodie, and when a gentle hand helped him to his feet, he stood compliantly and allowed his cellmate to finish undressing him. As fatigue started to shut down his mind, his eyelids grew heavy and he swayed unsteadily on his feet. He fell into a dreamlike state, but when an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him in close, he immediately recoiled from the contact and opening his eyes, he gazed in horror at Mosco’s naked body. “N-No!” he stammered and backing away, he cowered in the shower stall. “P-Please Mosco, don’t. I c-can’t take it, not now… please! I can’t… I can’t!”

It was not the reaction Mosco had expected and his eyes widened in surprise. “It’s okay Tommy,” he pacified in a low voice and holding out his hands, he slowly approached his frightened cellmate. “I don’t wanna do _that_ , I just wanna help you get clean.”

The fear in Tom’s eyes slowly faded, but his exhausted body continued to tremble uncontrollably. “You promise?” he whispered.

The pathetic tone of Tom’s voice reminded Mosco of a small, frightened child and a physical pain stabbed at his heart. “I promise Chico,” he murmured softly and stepping into the cubicle, he turned on the faucets. 

Tom flinched as a hard spray of water cascaded over his body, but soon, the therapeutic warmth lulled his tired mind and muscles and bracing his palms against the cracked tiled wall, he lowered his head and surrendered to its warmth. Moments later, gentle hands lathered his filthy hair with shampoo, but when the long fingers massaged his scalp, he winced in pain. 

Noticing Tom’s discomfort, Mosco carefully probed the area and he swore softly. “Bastardos! They should have taken you to the fucking infirmary.”

Comforted by Mosco’s tender touch, Tom slowly shook his head. “I’m okay,’ he mumbled in a faraway voice and closing his eyes, he relaxed against his caregiver’s muscular body and succumbed to the pampering. 

Mosco suppressed a moan of longing and biting down on his lower lip, he tried to ignore the hardening of his cock and instead, he concentrated on the task at hand. After rinsing Tom’s hair, he soaped up his hands and tenderly washed every inch of his friend’s body, taking care not to linger over his genitals. He could not explain it, but since seeing Tom again, there had been a dramatic shift in his psyche and he felt an unexplained protectiveness towards him. His initial motives for befriending Tom had been completely self-serving; he had a plan in place and if he managed to execute it, his standing as _Jefe_ would remain secure. However, in the space of a few short minutes, things had become unexpectedly complicated. He now realized that he had _actual_ feelings for Tom and he felt a heavy weight of guilt upon his shoulders for having instigated the plan that had landed his cellmate in solitary. Although he now felt a degree of remorse, in his mind, his reasons at the time had been justified. Firstly, he was _el Jefe_ and he would be damned if he would allow the man he was fucking to dream about another, and secondly… well, _that_ motivation had a more sinister connotation. He needed Tom to be isolated from all family and friends… he needed him to be alone at the time of his release. 

It was all part of the master plan.

But no matter how he tried to rationalize it to himself, as he gazed at the mentally and physically fragile man standing before him, he wondered if he could actually go ahead with the arrangement. He had no doubt in his mind that his feelings were real and for the first time in a very long time, his heart expanded with love instead of lust. There was no denying it, he was falling for Tom Hanson and he was falling hard.

A small chuckle escaped his lips and he shook his head in amusement, sending small droplets of water flying into the moist air. Never before had he allowed himself to acknowledge his softer side. With a convict for a father and a drug addict for a mother, his childhood had been rough and he had learned from a young age to toughen up. At twelve, he was already in a gang and by the age of thirteen, he had witnessed almost every brutality known to man. However, deep inside his soul, there remained the remnants of a lost and innocent child and seeing Tom so vulnerable had awakened his long forgotten social conscience. It was a strange feeling, but he now felt an overwhelming need to love and nurture his chico hermoso in a way he never had before.

He no longer just wanted to fuck Tom, he wanted to be his inamorato.

Pushing his body against Tom’s inert form, he leaned forward and turned off the faucets. Steam hung heavily in the air, giving the shower room an ethereal aura and placing an arm around Tom’s shoulders, he slowly led him from the cubicle. “C’mon mi amigo _(my friend),_ let’s get you dry.”

Tom’s body swayed gently back and forth, the warmth of the shower coupled with Mosco’s tender touch soothing the delirium in his mind and relaxing his tense muscles. He grinned sleepily as his friend patted him dry before wrapping a towel around his waist, the fears and horrors of the last few months now magically forgotten. But the reprieve from his demons was short lived and when they left the sanctuary of the bathroom and entered the disorderly confines of the testosterone-filled rec room, his anxiety quickly returned. He started to hyperventilate, the labored sound of his breathing echoing loudly in his own ears. His panic-filled dark eyes darted from side to side, the malevolent faces of his peers instilling fear in his heart. Once again he was trapped in hell, the only difference was, this time he had company.

Waves of fear radiated off his trembling body and sensing his agitation, Mosco wrapped an arm around his slim waist and pulled him close. Several inmates wolf whistled and crude comments sounded around the room. _“Hey Mosco, you got your puto back… he’s still veeery pretty... I wanna watch you fuck him… hey Hanson, did you miss having el Jefe’s cock up your ass? Maybe I’ll pay you a visit too…”_

Mosco leaned in close and whispered in Tom’s ear. “Don’t listen to ‘em Chico, I made you a promise and I’m a man of my word. You’re safe with me.”

The reassuring words barely registered in Tom’s mind, all he wanted was the safety of his cell, so he could close his eyes and block out the unwanted sounds that were ricocheting inside his head. He stumbled blindly up the metal staircase, his panic rising with every footfall. As the jeering grew louder, he was desperate to free himself of the threatening taunts and breaking free of Mosco’s protective hold, he tripped up the remaining two steps and staggered into his cell. His jagged breath ripped at his throat and falling to his knees, he wrapped his arms protectively around his head and began to rock back and forth, the comfort of Mosco’s tender touch now just a distant memory. Once again, he felt the veil of madness slipping over his mind, but this time, he did not fight it; he was too exhausted and all he wanted was to find some peace.

When a gentle hand stroked his back, he shrank away from the touch, but the hand was persistent and it continued to offer comfort in the form of a soft caress. Minutes passed and his breathing gradually became less labored. The panic slowly cleared from his mind and lowering his arms, he gazed up into Mosco’s worried eyes. “Hey Chico,” the Hispanic murmured softly. “Do you wanna get dressed?”

Realizing that he had lost his towel in his frantic effort to escape, he nodded his head. Mosco’s lifted him to his feet and helped him dress in a t-shirt and boxers, before leading him over to his bunk. “Lie down. I’ll bribe a hack to bring a tray of food to you.”

Tom climbed onto the narrow bed and blinking back tears of exhaustion, he shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

Staring down at Tom’s thin frame, Mosco started to protest, but when he saw the fatigue in the dark eyes gazing up at him, he quickly bit his tongue. He patted Tom affectionately on the head before turning to leave, but a soft whisper stopped him in his tracks. “Tell me you love me.”

His eyes widened in surprise and spinning around, he started to speak, but the shock of the question had him tripping over his words. “Tommy, I… um… I…” 

Tom’s dark eyes glistened with unshed tears and grasping hold of Mosco’s upper arm, he pulled him down onto the bunk and pleaded with him in a fraught voice. “Please! Even if it's a lie, just tell me you love me!” 

The last time Mosco had uttered those three tiny words, he had been fifteen years of age and his mother was dying from AIDS. He had made a vow in that hospital never to open his heart to love again, it was just too damn painful and he had stuck to his word. He had entered into countless relationships with women and never once had he told them he loved them. When he was arrested at age twenty-one he already had a reputation and it did not take him long to rise to the rank of _Jefe_. With no women to fuck, he turned his attention to men and he had claimed many scared, naïve _cherries_. But no matter who he claimed, it was unashamed lust not love… that was, until now. Now he felt his heart softening under the allure of Tom’s desperate gaze and although the sensation made him nervous, he found himself wavering. For the first time in over ten years, he wanted to give of himself completely.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward and he pressed his lips against Tom’s smooth forehead. “I love you Chico,” he murmured softly.

Tom’s face visibly relaxed and closing his eyes, he let out a contented sigh. “Thank you.”

Unsure how to proceed, Mosco rose to his feet. He stood staring down at Tom for several long seconds before exiting the room.

**

_**Friday March 16th 1990 (7.22 p.m.)** _

Officer Hanley escorted Mosco up to his cell. After checking that Tom was present, albeit, asleep, he motioned to the control room to shut the cell door. “Don’t be too hard on him,” he instructed as the barred gate slammed closed, “he’s been through a lot.”

Mosco ignored the comment and pulling his t-shirt over his head, he threw it to the floor. Kicking off his boots, he stripped off his jeans and proceeded to climb onto his bunk, when a soft voice sounded from the bed below. “Did you mean it?”

At the sound of Tom’s voice, Mosco’s stomach somersaulted and his heart began to beat a little faster. He was surprised at the affect his cellmate was starting to have on him, but it was not an unpleasant feeling, just unexpected. Settling down on his mattress, he pulled his battered crime novel out from under his pillow and opened the worn book. “Go to sleep Hanson,” he replied, but as he stared blankly at the yellowing pages, a smile played over his lips, softening his features. He was in love.


	32. Beers, Tears and Cheers to Twenty-Five Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Friday March 16th 1990 (7.22 p.m.)_
> 
> _Officer Hanley escorted Mosco up to his cell. After checking that Tom was present, albeit, asleep, he motioned to the control room to shut the cell door. “Don’t be too hard on him,” he instructed as the barred gate slammed closed, “he’s been through a lot.”_
> 
> _Mosco ignored the comment and pulling his t-shirt over his head, he threw it to the floor. Kicking off his boots, he stripped off his jeans and proceeded to climb onto his bunk, when a soft voice sounded from the bed below. “Did you mean it?”_
> 
> _At the sound of Tom’s voice, Mosco’s stomach somersaulted and his heart began to beat a little faster. He was surprised at the affect his cellmate was starting to have on him, but it was not an unpleasant feeling, just unexpected. Settling down on his mattress, he pulled his battered crime novel out from under his pillow and opened the worn book. “Go to sleep Hanson,” he replied, but as he stared blankly at the yellowing pages, a smile played over his lips, softening his features. He was in love._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35938729656/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Friday March 23rd 1990 (1.42 a.m.)** _

Unable to sleep, Tom lay on his bunk thinking about the week that had passed since his release from solitary. He was gradually readapting to the noisy and often brutal life of general population, but even though he was acclimatizing to the everyday living conditions, he still found himself seeking solitude from the constant boisterous activities that occurred in every nook of D Block. He spent most of his time lying on his bunk reading the worn books he had selected from the tiny storage room that served as a library. Most of the inmates left him alone, partly because he was friends with Mosco and partly because he had proven himself when he attacked Howell, the most hated hack on the Block. He still had to endure the occasional crude taunt when he showered, however, although his face flamed red with embarrassment, he refused to react to the provocation, preferring to block out the wolf whistles and ignore the threats of sexual assault as best he could. Occasionally Mosco would intervene, threatening the agitator with physical harm, but mostly the Hispanic remained silent, his hands balled into tight fists and a murderous look marring his handsome face. He knew the prison code well enough to know he would do Tom more harm than good if he jumped to his defense every time an inmate made a suggestive remark. He needed to keep a level head and allow Tom to fight his own battles, no matter how difficult it was to stay silent.

For Tom, the change in Mosco’s attitude toward him was an ongoing mystery. Since his release from solitary, Mosco had not approached him for sex and their only physical contact had been the gentle kiss his cellmate had placed against his forehead the day he returned to the Block. He was mortified that he had begged Mosco to tell him he loved him, but at the time, he was seeking comfort because he could feel himself slipping back towards the mental flogging of self-loathing that had plagued him after Amy’s death. Once again, a little voice inside his head was telling him he was unworthy of love and he needed to hear the words spoken aloud if he had any hope of giving himself the psychological absolution that would purge his soul once and for all of the self-hatred that threatened his sanity. He had initially believed his relationship with Booker would have a cathartic effect on the negative way he viewed himself, but he now realized it was the exact opposite. During every heated argument and physical fight they had experienced in their short time together, Dennis had been quick to remind him of his past, the spiteful words spilling readily from his lips. _Whore_ and _junkie_ had been the insults of choice during his vituperative rants and Tom now understood how much the pejorative commentary had severely affected his self-esteem. He did not then (and he doubted he ever would), feel that he was worthy of Booker’s love and no matter how hard he tried to redeem himself in the eyes of the man he thought was his soul mate, he would always be the ex-junkie whore that had screwed up his life.

But then there was Mosco. It had surprised him that his friend had capitulated to his request so readily and he found himself intrigued by his cellmate’s willingness to tell him he loved him. However, he was not a gullible fool. He knew in all likelihood that the words were a lie, but the eagerness for Mosco to console him had been a pleasant surprise. Not that his cellmate was a shining example of a considerate lover. Mosco had proven himself to be cruel, manipulative and just as ready with the insults as Booker. But unlike Dennis, his cellmate had not turned his back on him when he was most in need of comfort and the Hispanic was now an integral part of his life. Since his return from solitary, he had noticed a real change in Mosco and he liked what he saw. 

Closing his eyes, he listened to the rhythmic sound of Mosco’s breathing and for the first time in a week, he slipped his hand inside his boxers. A low moan escaped his lips and as his fingers stroked himself to hardness, he knew he needed to move forward and accept the harsh reality of his failed relationship with Dennis, no matter how difficult it was. Booker had deserted him without giving him a chance to explain his actions and the dark haired officer was now just a remnant of his past, whereas the man lying above him, the man who had brought him back from the brink of insanity, might well be, a part of his future.

**

_**Friday March 23rd 1990 (6.23 a.m.)** _

Two bloodshot eyes stared back at Booker from the small bathroom mirror hanging on the wall, their glassy gaze mocking him with their inability to focus. Rubbing a trembling hand over his stubbled chin, he exhaled heavily and tried to remember the night before. There was a large gash on his forehead and a split in his lower lip, indicating that he had been in a fight. The throbbing in his anus suggested something more disturbing, but even though he had no memory of the previous night’s events, he knew the sex had been consensual because that was what he did now; he fought and he fucked. Except he didn’t fuck men, he let the men fuck him. Along with the violent brawls he sought out in disreputable bars and alleyways, it was all part of his twisted need to punish Tom whilst punishing himself. He was not searching for love or affection, he was searching for pain, in fact, he craved it, along with the alcohol that helped to numb his aching heart and fuel his violent outbursts. He was the poster child for self-destructive behavior and he did not give a damn what people thought. . 

However, the extent of his rebel-rousing was about to have some serious consequences. With only one month’s probation left, his Captain had given him an ultimatum; take two weeks off, get clean or he would have no choice but to revoke his law enforcement certification. It had come as no surprise, Harry had warned him on several occasions that he was walking a thin line towards unemployment, but he remained too caught up in his own misery to care. That was until he woke up that morning in a pool of his own vomit and he realized he had hit rock bottom. He was a drunken, whoring antagonist and if he did not get his shit together, he would wind up heading down the same nefarious path as the man who was the cause of all his internal suffering, and he would be damned if he would give Tom the satisfaction of seeing him fail.

Rubbing a shaky hand over his mouth, he glared defiantly at the haggard face staring back at him, but his bravado quickly faltered and tears sprang to his eyes. “Happy fucking birthday,” he whispered, before allowing the tears of shame and remorse to trickle unchecked down his pale, chiseled cheeks. He was twenty-five years old and his life was falling apart around him.

**

_**Friday March 23rd 1990 (7.06 p.m.)** _

After showering and cleaning up the putrid mess of vomit in his bed, Booker spent the day lying on the couch staring blindly at the TV, the tedious _laugh tracks_ of the sitcoms and the monotonous voices of the newsreaders, barely penetrating through the fog shrouding his mind. He did not eat or drink, his abused stomach protesting with audible growls and gurgles that threatened to spew forth a mixture of the previous night’s _carte du jour_ , which had consisted of copious amounts of beer, bourbon and a serve of greasy fries, before he had prowled the streets looking for a fight or a fuck. It had been his lucky night, he had found both, but his battered body was now rebelling against the months of abuse and he felt nauseous, clammy and his hands shook uncontrollably. But as much as he blamed Tom for his current downward spiral, deep down in the recesses of his mind that only became active when he was hung over and suffering, he knew he only had himself to blame. He was a pathetic shell of the man he had once been and only he was capable of turning his life back around. It was the wakeup call he needed because he knew if he did not change his ways soon, he was facing a life of loneliness and misery.

A loud knock at the door startled him out of his reverie and moaning in protest, he slowly sat up, his hand clutching theatrically at his aching head. For a fraction of a second, he considered ignoring whoever it was, but his curiosity got the better of him and with a sigh, he rose to his feet and stumbled across the room. Keeping the chain in place, he opened the door a few inches and peered out through the gap.

Harry’s cheerful face grinned back at him and he felt a flutter of appreciation in his heart for the friend who stood by him, even when he was at his worst. “Hey,” he muttered, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth. “Now’s not really—”

Harry’s eyes took in Booker’s battered face and pallid complexion, but he did not make comment. On several occasions, he had almost come to blows with Dennis about his drinking and fighting, but he had quickly realized that an intervention was pointless. Booker was too proud and hotheaded to heed any advice that he had to offer, much like Tom had been. Also, the dark haired officer was no fool, Harry was certain that he was well aware of how his licentious lifestyle was leading him down a path of self-destruction and that if he wanted to keep his job, he needed to put the past behind him and forget all about Tom. He was concerned that after their initial conversation when Booker had revealed what had happened, he never spoke about Tom or about the explicit photographs again. But he also understood that his friend needed time to grieve his loss and he hoped that once he accepted it was over, he would start to repair his shattered heart and move forward with his life.

“Hey, yourself,” he grinned. “It’s your twenty-fifth birthday, you can’t sit at home wallowing in self-pity, we need to hit the town and celebrate!”

Booker paused for a moment before closing the door and removing the chain. He hesitated slightly before opening the door again and stepping back, he allowed Harry entrance into his apartment. Lowering his gaze to the floor, he rubbed a self-conscious hand over the back of his neck and gave his friend a watery smile. “Um, I’ve decided to stop drinking, so a night out celebrating probably isn’t the best idea.” 

Ioki’s expression sobered and stepping forward, he laid a comforting hand on Booker’s arm. “Good for you,” he murmured softly. When all he received was a wan smile in return, he decided that his friend needed something to take his mind off his current state of misery. “So we tone down the celebrating and go to a diner that doesn’t serve alcohol. I bet you could use a feed of fried food to soak up all the alcohol you’ve consumed.”

At the mention of food, Booker’s stomach lurched and closing his eyes, he swallowed down the hot, watery bile that erupted into his throat. “I don’t think I can eat anything,” he muttered miserably.

Harry was not about to give up and he grinned mischievously. “So I’ll eat and you can sit and look depressed. Whaddya say?”

A hint of a smile brightened Booker’s face and he winced slightly as the cut on his lower lip opened up. Dabbing at the wound with his fingers, his expression relaxed. “Okay, but I’m warning you, I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”

Placing his arm around Booker’s shoulders, Harry gave his friend a gentle squeeze. “I don’t care, I just want to celebrate my best friend’s birthday… but more than that, I want to see him happy again.”

Tears glistened in Booker’s dark eyes and as the emotions of the past few months spilled forth, his lower lip started to tremble uncontrollably. “I just miss him so much,” he whispered.

It was the breakthrough Harry had been hoping for and pulling his friend into his arms, he held him close. “I know you do,” he murmured softly, “but you need to put your relationship with Tom behind you and move forward.”

Booker pulled himself together and rubbing a shaky hand over his teary eyes, he gave Harry a resolute stare. “You know what man? You’re right. Screw him, he can rot in hell for all I care. He’s a fucking whore and I’m better off without him.”

Although it was not exactly the response Harry had been hoping for, he smiled back encouragingly. Deep down, he actually felt a sliver of sympathy for Tom, but hell would have to freeze over before he would ever admit it to Booker. “C’mon,” he grinned, “I’m starving and if you’re not eating, I’ll buy you a glass of water.”

For the first time since waking up, Booker actually felt hungry and he returned a small grin. “Actually, all this talk of food is making me hungry. I’m thinking I could go a burger and as it’s my birthday, it’s your buy.”

Harry threw back his head and laughing loudly, he slapped Booker playfully on the back. “It’s a deal.”


	33. I Want You to Want Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I'm sure many of you will not be too pleased with what is about to take place, but this is how I planned the story and it is an integral part of the plot.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Booker paused for a moment before closing the door and removing the chain. He hesitated slightly before opening the door again and stepping back, he allowed Harry entrance into his apartment. Lowering his gaze to the floor, he rubbed a self-conscious hand over the back of his neck and gave his friend a watery smile. “Um, I’ve decided to stop drinking, so a night out celebrating probably isn’t the best idea.”_
> 
> _Ioki’s expression sobered and stepping forward, he laid a comforting hand on Booker’s arm. “Good for you,” he murmured softly. When all he received was a wan smile in return, he decided that his friend needed something to take his mind off his current state of misery. “So we tone down the celebrating and go to a diner that doesn’t serve alcohol. I bet you could use a feed of fried food to soak up all the alcohol you’ve consumed.”_
> 
> _At the mention of food, Booker’s stomach lurched and closing his eyes, he swallowed down the hot, watery bile that erupted into his throat. “I don’t think I can eat anything,” he muttered miserably._
> 
> _Harry was not about to give up and he grinned mischievously. “So I’ll eat and you can sit and look depressed. Whaddya say?”_
> 
> _A hint of a smile brightened Booker’s face and he winced slightly as the cut on his lower lip opened up. Dabbing at the wound with his fingers, his expression relaxed. “Okay, but I’m warning you, I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”_
> 
> _Placing his arm around Booker’s shoulders, Harry gave his friend a gentle squeeze. “I don’t care, I just want to celebrate my best friend’s birthday… but more than that, I want to see him happy again.”_
> 
> _Tears glistened in Booker’s dark eyes and as the emotions of the past few months spilled forth, his lower lip started to tremble uncontrollably. “I just miss him so much,” he whispered._
> 
> _It was the breakthrough Harry had been hoping for and pulling his friend into his arms, he held him close. “I know you do,” he murmured softly, “but you need to put your relationship with Tom behind you and move forward.”_
> 
> _Booker pulled himself together and rubbing a shaky hand over his teary eyes, he gave Harry a resolute stare. “You know what? You’re right man. Screw him, he can rot in hell for all I care. He’s a fucking whore and I’m better off without him.”_
> 
> _Although it was not exactly the response Harry had been hoping for, he smiled back encouragingly. Deep down, he actually felt a sliver of sympathy for Tom, but hell would have to freeze over before he would ever admit it to Booker. “C’mon,” he grinned, “I’m starving and if you’re not eating, I’ll buy you a glass of water.”_
> 
> _For the first time since waking up, Booker actually felt hungry and he returned a small grin. “Actually, all this talk of food is making me hungry. I’m thinking I could go a burger and as it’s my birthday, it’s your buy.”_
> 
> _Harry threw back his head and laughing loudly, he slapped Booker playfully on the back. “It’s a deal.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170023833/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Saturday March 24th 1990 (9.55 p.m.)** _

As the prison prepared to lockdown for the night, Tom sat on the edge of his bunk and stared wistfully into space. He had spent the evening in the gym, working out his frustrations and disappointments through a testosterone-fueled training session of lifting weights and boxing. Even though he knew he was an idiot to have even contemplated the idea, he had held onto the faint hope that Booker (after celebrating his birthday without him) would have felt the need to see him. He had spent the whole of the day before procrastinating, unsure if he should phone his ex-lover and wish him a happy birthday or if it was a wiser decision to let sleeping dogs lie. But in the end, he had decided it seemed a lame gesture after everything that had happened and even if he _had_ managed to pluck up the nerve, he was fairly certain the young officer would not have accepted the collect call. It was then that he wished he had at least sent a card, but even that seemed inappropriate, given the circumstances, because he would not have known what to write. _Happy birthday Dennis, sorry I ruined your life, but enjoy your day!_ seemed completely inappropriate, as did, _Happy birthday Dennis, please forgive me._ There was really nothing else he could say and even if he did find the right words, saying them in a letter was the coward’s way out. If he wanted Booker to forgive him, he needed to find the appropriate way to do it and now did not seem the right time. He knew in his heart that their relationship was over and in a small way, he had accepted it. But he also knew he could not carry the guilt of his sins forever and that one day, he would have to apologize for all the hurt he had caused the man who had tried his hardest to save him when he was in desperate need of help and that he would once again, need to atone for his transgressions.

When a gentle hand stroked his shower-damp hair, he looked up and his gaze bore deep into his cellmate’s inquiring emerald green eyes. The tender caress had once again awakened his need to feel loved and without giving himself time to think, he asked the question that had been keeping him awake at night ever since his release from solitary. “Why don’t you want to have sex with me anymore?” 

Mosco’s hand stilled and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Ever since Tom’s return to D Block, he had not felt comfortable approaching him for casual sex because his affection for the younger man had grown exponentially and he no longer viewed him as just a piece of ass. However, it was not as simple as telling Tom he thought he had fallen in love with him, he had a dark secret and now, whenever he thought about it, his emotions overwhelmed him and his stomach churned. He wanted Tom as his lover in every sense of the word and yet he was essentially, leading a lamb to slaughter. But there was nothing he could do about it now, he had opened Pandora’s Box and by doing so, he had sealed Tom’s fate. He felt duplicitous because his feelings for Tom had changed so dramatically, but he also knew if he intervened and tried to stop the plan that his _Jefa_ had so carefully put in place, his own life would not be worth living. 

He was caught between a rock and a hard place.

The clang of the cell gate closing pulled him from his reverie and gazing down into Tom’s desolate brown eyes, his heart began to pound heavily in his chest. He paused for a moment before throwing caution to the wind and taking Tom’s hand in his, he pulled him to his feet. As their eyes locked, he could feel the sexual tension vibrating between their bodies like electricity and he knew there was no turning back; he was bewitched.

When the prison lights dimmed, a slow smile played over his lips and cupping Tom’s face in his hand, he gently caressed the smooth skin beneath his thumb. “Are you asking me to make love to you, Chico?” he asked softly.

Tom’s cheeks flushed an attractive shade of pink and his dark eyes filled with longing before self-consciously averting their gaze to the floor. Mosco had never used the term _make love_ before, their dysfunctional relationship had been based solely on getting off. But now, as he felt Mosco’s callused thumb lovingly stroking his cheek, memories of the tender, reassuring kiss his cellmate had placed against his forehead surged to the surface and his heart skipped a beat. The selfish, conceited and often brutal man he had shared a cell with for the past four and a half months appeared to have done a complete three-sixty and standing before him was a transformed man… a man he was falling in love with.

A tremor of excitement tinged with uncertainty ran down the full length of his body and nervously licking his lips, he lifted his gaze and stared into Mosco’s expectant eyes. “Yes,” he murmured, the excessive trembling in his legs causing him to sway slightly on his feet. “I am.” 

Mosco’s jagged breathing resonated throughout the tiny cell and his viridian eyes shimmered with arousal in the dim moonlight filtering in through the small overhead window. The heat radiating between their two bodies was palpable and leaning forward, he brushed his lips against the soft flesh of Tom’s full pout. It was their first kiss and both men savored the intimacy that had been lacking from their lives for so long. Their lips parted simultaneously, but Mosco allowed Tom to take control, not wanting to scare him with the depth of his arousal. His cock was already hard and the Mosco of old would have had Tom bent over the sink and halfway to happy land by now, but the unfamiliarity of the intense emotions coursing through his body made him hesitant. For the first time in his life it was not about the sexual gratification he knew he would receive, it was all about pleasuring the man standing before him.

As their tongues danced a slow, sensual tango of exploration, a low moan sounded from deep within his chest and wrapping his arms around Tom’s narrow waist, he pulled him closer. He was struggling to contain the fire smoldering deep inside his soul, the flames licking at his genitals and igniting a deep sensuality within him. He longed to warm Tom with his newfound love and that one kiss could have such a profound effect on him was both baffling yet invigorating. When long fingers unexpectedly fondled his erection through the soft material of his boxers, he felt like a teenager experiencing his first sexual encounter and terrified that he would shoot his load there and then, he broke the kiss, and cupping Tom’s face in his hands, he gazed at him through heavy lids. “I wanna feel you beneath me mi chico hermoso,” he breathed, his chest rising and falling with the intensity of his arousal. “I wanna make you come.”

With a seductive smile, Tom took Mosco by the hand and began to walk over to the basin, but his cellmate pulled back, a look of immense sadness passing over his handsome face. “No, no, Chico,” he murmured, his eyes glistening with shame. “I don’t wanna fuck you… I wanna make love to you.”

Tom’s brow creased in confusion, but when Mosco led him over to the narrow bunks, he suddenly understood and his heart fluttered as raw emotion reawakened a fiery passion within his soul. His thickening cock tented his boxers and hooking his thumbs into the elastic waistband, he pushed the soft material down until it pooled around his ankles. He immediately felt Marco’s desirous gaze upon him, the jade green eyes greedily feeding on the erotic sight of his erect cock jutting out proudly from his slim body and a shiver of excitement ran down the length of his spine. It had been a long time since someone had looked at him in with such rapture; Mosco wanted him, _yearned_ for him with a passion that would continue to burn until his eager hands and ravenous mouth quenched the insatiable thirst through a fervent exploration of his quivering flesh. For the first time in weeks, he felt alive and every nerve in his body tingled with an impatient desire to feel the other man’s love and just as importantly, to return the love, to the one who bestowed it upon him.

Stepping out of his boxers, he pulled his t-shirt over his head and lay down on his bunk. His chest rose and fell in eager anticipation for what was to come, his breathlessness coloring his cheeks a soft shade of pink. Within seconds, Mosco was naked and kneeling before him, his expression hesitant and laughing softly, Tom reached out and caressed the older man’s face. “You look nervous,” he teased gently. “It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

Mosco’s eyes clouded over. “This is different,” he whispered, his voice rasping with emotion. “This time it’s not about me taking what I want, it’s about you giving it to me willingly.”

Tom’s hand stilled and his expression darkened. “It wasn’t rape,” he replied quietly, “You never forced yourself on me.”

A heavy sigh escaped from between Mosco’s lips and with his erection now dwindling, he lay down in the confined space next to Tom and stared morosely at the sagging mattress above him. “I might as well have. I coerced you through intimidation… let’s face it, you never would have submitted unless I’d talked you into it… I’m just not your type.”

Shocked and surprised by Mosco’s frank admission, Tom rolled over and stared intently at his cellmate. “You’re wrong,” he murmured as he studied Mosco’s chiseled profile. “That first time when we… God, I wanted it so badly it hurt. And maybe we’re both guilty of using each other to get what we wanted, but all that’s changed now. I admit it, I was desperate for love because I missed Dennis, but that no longer matters because I’ve come to the realization that I don’t love him anymore, I love _you_ , Miguel… _you’re_ the one I want to be with, not him.”

Two jade green eyes turned in his direction, the intensity of their gaze reigniting the fire deep within Tom’s soul. “Do you really mean that?” Mosco whispered, his voice hitching in his throat. “Do you _really_ love me?”

Tom smiled and leaning forward, he brushed his lips enticingly over Mosco’s soft pout. “Yeah I do,” he reassured softly and taking his lover’s cock in his hand, he tenderly stroked him back to hardness.

“Oh, _Chico_ ,” Mosco breathed and pressing his lips against the taut skin of Tom’s throat, he sucked deeply. “Me pones cachondo _(You make me horny)_.”

The passion in Mosco’s voice hardened Tom’s own cock and he elicited a soft moan. Since arriving in prison, he had learned the meaning of many Spanish words and he knew _exactly_ what Mosco was saying. With his lover’s cock now fully erect, he released his hold and rolled onto his back. “Quiero que me folles duro _(I want you to fuck me hard)_.”

Mosco’s green eyes flashed with excitement and a low growl rumbled in his chest. “Mmm, Chico, now you’re _really_ turning me on,” he groaned and reaching up, he pulled a tube of lubrication out from under his mattress. Tom’s eyes widened with surprise. They had always used moisturizer as a lubricant, which was not always the most pleasant and the thought of using real lubrication stimulated him even further. For the first time, they would be like _real_ lovers and not just two frantic inmates, desperate to get off.

With his prized possession in his hand, Mosco knelt between Tom’s bent legs and the sight of the beautiful body laid out willingly before him brought a lump of emotion to his throat. The love he felt was genuine and a physical pain stabbed at his heart. He was about to make love to a man whose life was predestined to end violently.

Pushing the unwanted thoughts from his mind, he coated his fingers and cock in the oily gel and leaning forward, he placed a loving kiss against Tom’s lips. “Ready mi chico hermoso?”

Tom’s dark eyes sparkled in the moonlight and nodding his head, he took a deep breath and waited. When Mosco’s finger pushed inside him, he exhaled a jagged breath. He was surprised at how gently his lover was treating him and reaching out a shaky hand, he lovingly stroked the jagged scar that in his eyes, added to the attractiveness of the man hovering above him. He felt himself start to relax and closing his eyes, he moaned as the gentle finger caressed his prostate.

“Can you feel it, Chico?” Mosco crooned softly and taking Tom’s cock in his free hand, he tugged gently. An expression of pure rapture lit up Tom’s beautiful face and he smiled lovingly as he continued the double stimulation.

“Yes,” Tom breathed, his body squirming beneath Mosco’s skilled hands. “I’m so fucking hard, oh God, Mosco, I want you inside me… _now!”_

Mosco’s eyes flashed with excitement at the intensity of the longing in Tom’s voice and withdrawing his finger, he brushed the hair from his lover’s eyes. “Wrap your legs around me, I wanna see that beautiful face when I make love to you.”

Tom did as Mosco asked, his dark eyes blazing brightly and when his lover’s cock slowly entered him, he emitted a low moan of pleasure. “Do you like that?” Mosco whispered as he gently rocked his hips forward, his cock pushing deeper into Tom’s willing body with every thrust. “Talk to me, Chico, tell me how it feels.”

“It feels fucking amazing,” Tom breathed, his fingers trailing up and down his erect cock, the light pressure adding to his stimulation. 

A smile curled at the edges of Mosco’s lips. “Do you want me to touch you?” he asked softly, his thrusts becoming deeper and more frenetic.

Tom’s body arched backward and his eyes fluttered closed. “ _Yesss_ ,” he hissed, “oh Mosco… oh God…”

Supporting his weight on one hand, Mosco gently grasped Tom’s erection between his fingers and tugged softly. “Like this?” he teased.

With his needs now growing to a fever pitch, Tom tangled his fingers in Mosco’s dark hair and thrusting his pelvis forward, he groaned loudly. “Harder… harder harder harder harder…”

Shifting his position slightly, Mosco increased the pace of his thrusts as his fingers worked over Tom’s weeping shaft. He could sense his lover was close and leaning forward, he whispered breathlessly against his ear. “Come for me, Chico.”

With an ecstatic cry, Tom’s hips thrust off the bed and seconds later, his orgasm shot forth, coating his chest with semen. “OH FUCK!” Mosco yelled and with one final thrust, his body shuddered violently as he climaxed forcefully. Heavy breathing resonated throughout the tiny cell and collapsing on top of Tom, he, held him close as his body continued to spasm. 

As the minutes passed, a post-climactic calm washed over both men and gently disengaging from Tom’s quivering body, Mosco flopped down on the narrow mattress and let out a heavy sigh. “Fuck.” 

A slow grin played over Tom’s flushed face. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Rolling onto his side, Mosco propped up on one elbow and gently caressed Tom’s face. “You’re one sexy motherfucker, Chico,” he whispered softly.

Tom’s cheeks flushed a deep red and draping his arm over Mosco’s muscular frame, he snuggled against the warm body and closed his eyes. “I love you, Miguel,” he murmured sleepily.

Mosco gazed at Tom’s serene face for several seconds before pressing his lips against his lover’s smooth forehead. “Yo también te quiero, mi chico hermoso. Que duermas bien _(I love you too, my beautiful boy. Sleep well)_ ,” he whispered and reaching down, he grabbed the thin gray blanket from the bottom of the bunk and covering both their bodies, he wrapped his arm protectively around Tom’ slim waist and fell into a blissful sleep.

**

_**Saturday March 24th 1990 (11.58 p.m.)** _

Booker kept his gaze fixed on his bedroom ceiling, his weary mind having jolted back to life the moment he had laid down on his bed and tried to go to sleep. He had survived his second day without giving into temptation, but he felt empty inside and the urge to numb his mind with alcohol and mindless sex was becoming a serious issue. He yearned for human contact, no matter how incongruous because when he was alone, his thoughts turned to Tom and how much he missed him, despite his fervent protests to the contrary. Although he had enjoyed his night out with Harry and he appreciated the effort his friend had made, he had spent most of the evening wishing that he were celebrating his birthday with Tom. He hated himself for calling his ex-lover a whore in front of Harry, but the pain of seeing Tom receiving sexual pleasure from another man had still been so raw, he had reacted by going on the attack. It was immature and churlish and he was ashamed that his friend had witnessed the harshness of his words, but he could not take them back, no matter how much he wished he could. 

As the seconds slowly ticked into long, agonizing hours, he slowly came to the realization that even though he could not change the past, he _could_ make everything right with Tom; all he had to do was swallow his pride and organize a visit for the following weekend. He knew it would not be easy seeing his ex-lover after witnessing the intimate moment captured on film, but over the last few months, he too had given into the temptations of the flesh with numerous long forgotten men and so he figured they were now even. They had both sought comfort in sex and it was something that would never be forgotten, but he could _try_ to make everything right by forgiving Tom, then they could concentrate on rebuilding their shattered relationship and move forward with their lives. It was that easy.

Or so he thought.

With his plan now in place, he closed his eyes, just as the sun slowly rose over the horizon and permeated the darkness with the warmth of its rays. For the first time in months, he felt a sense of calmness radiating throughout his body and he truly believed everything would be all right.


	34. Hello, Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Saturday March 24th 1990 (11.58 p.m.)_
> 
> _Booker kept his gaze fixed on his bedroom ceiling, his weary mind having jolted back to life the moment he had laid down on his bed and tried to go to sleep. He had survived his second day without giving into temptation, but he felt empty inside and the urge to numb his mind with alcohol and mindless sex was becoming a serious issue. He yearned for human contact, no matter how incongruous because when he was alone, his thoughts turned to Tom and how much he missed him, despite his fervent protests to the contrary. Although he had enjoyed his night out with Harry and he appreciated the effort his friend had made, he had spent most of the evening wishing that he were celebrating his birthday with Tom. He hated himself for calling his ex-lover a whore in front of Harry, but the pain of seeing Tom receiving sexual pleasure from another man had still been so raw, he had reacted by going on the attack. It was immature and churlish and he was ashamed that his friend had witnessed the harshness of his words, but he could not take them back, no matter how much he wished he could._
> 
> _As the seconds slowly ticked into long, agonizing hours, he slowly came to the realization that even though he could not change the past, he could make everything right with Tom; all he had to do was swallow his pride and organize a visit for the following weekend. He knew it would not be easy seeing his ex-lover after witnessing the intimate moment captured on film, but over the last few months, he too had given into the temptations of the flesh with numerous long forgotten men and so he figured they were now even. They had both sought comfort in sex and it was something that would never be forgotten, but he could try to make everything right by forgiving Tom, then they could concentrate on rebuilding their shattered relationship and move forward with their lives. It was that easy._
> 
> _Or so he thought._
> 
> _With his plan now in place, he closed his eyes, just as the sun slowly rose over the horizon and permeated the darkness with the warmth of its rays. For the first time in months, he felt a sense of calmness radiating throughout his body and he truly believed everything would be all right._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170023643/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Saturday March 31st 1990 (9.11 a.m.)** _

As Tom strolled through the recreation room with Mosco by his side, a heavy hand grasped him by the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Spinning around with hands balled and ready for a fight, he scowled when he saw Officer Howell and shrugging out of his hold, he glared at the hack with hate-filled eyes. “Keep your fucking hands off me,” he spat.

Howell gave Tom an amused smile, but his eyes remained cold. “What’s your problem, Hanson? The way I hear it, you _love_ the feel of another man’s hand on you.”

With an angry growl, Tom took a menacing step forward, but Mosco quickly grabbed his upper arm and restrained him. “Don’t,” he hissed, “You’ll end up back in the hole.”

Shaking his arm free, Tom continued to glare defiantly at the smug officer. “What do you want, Howell? Haven’t you got anything better to do than feel up the inmates?”

A cruel smirk curled Howell’s thin lips and his eyes flitted between Tom and Mosco. “Actually, I came to give you a message. Your _boyfriend_ has just signed in for a visit and as you never bother to look at the visitor list, I thought I’d deliver the news personally.”

Tom cast a nervous glance at Mosco before returning his gaze to the smug officer. “You’re lying,” he replied hesitantly. “Because of you, he never wants to see me again.”

“Me?” Howell laughed. “Oh, Hanson, you have _a lot_ to learn about prison life. It was M—” 

The fear that Howell was about to reveal his secret immediately overrode Mosco’s feelings of jealousy and wrapping an arm around Tom’s shoulders, he steered him away from the man who had the power to potentially end their relationship. “C’mon, let’s go check the list ourselves.”

Unsettled by the news, Tom pulled free of Mosco’s hold. “I can do it by myself,” he snapped. “I’m not a fucking child.”

Sensing that an argument was about to erupt, Mosco held up his hands and backed away. “Sure thing, Chico,” he replied in a stilted voice, a slow-burning fuse of resentment balling his hands into tight, angry fists. “Go see your precious _Dennis_. Have a nice visit.”

“Mosco…” Tom appealed softly, but the older man pushed past him and striding across the room, he climbed the stairs two at a time up to their cell and disappeared from view.

As he watched the exchange unfold, Howell rubbed a hand over his dimpled chin. “Well, well. Trouble in paradise, Hanson?”

Tom longed to wipe the irritating smirk off Howell’s arrogant face, but the memory of his time in solitary refrained him from slamming his fist into the pudgy jaw and turning away, he muttered a quiet “Fuck you asshole,” under his breath, and walked away.

**

_**Saturday March 31st 1990 (10.09 a.m.)** _

For the second time in four and a half months, Tom entered the noisy visitors’ room, his eyes frantically scanning the cluttered tables for a glimpse of Booker’s face. When he caught sight of the dark haired officer, he felt a surge of excitement, but he quickly forced the feeling back down. Booker had disappointed him too many times and his heart now belonged to another. He was prepared to hear what his ex had to say, but he was in no mood for forgiveness… that boat had already sailed.

When Booker looked up and caught his eye, he quickly averted his gaze and taking a deep, calming breath, he zigzagged through the tables and pulling out a chair, he sat down opposite the man who not so long ago, he had considered his soul mate. Without bothering with pleasantries, he lifted his gaze and staring Dennis straight in the eye, he spoke in a cool voice. “What are you doing here, Booker?”

Surprised by the directness and lack of warmth in Tom’s question, Booker ran a shaky hand through his dark hair. “I, um… I wanted to see you.”

Sitting back in his chair, Tom folded his arms across his chest and gave his ex-lover a hard stare. “ _Really?”_

With the conversation not going the way he had planned, Booker leaned forward slightly and in a gesture of friendship, he stretched his arms out across the table. “Well, yeah. I know I should have come sooner, but I needed time,” he admitted quietly before whispering, “I’ve missed you.”

Tom’s body stiffened and his dark eyes flashed with anger. “You’ve _missed_ me? Well, in case you’ve forgotten, _Booker_ , _you’re_ the one who stopped visiting _me_. You didn’t even give me a chance to explain about the photos.”

Booker’s humble mood immediately evaporated and slamming the palm of his hand down on the table, he glared at Tom with furious eyes. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” he yelled. “I DIDN’T NEED TO HEAR YOUR JUSTIFICATION, TOM. SOME GUY WAS SUCKING ON YOUR DICK, IT WAS PRETTY FUCKING SELF EXPLANATORY!”

Dozens of curious eyes turned in their direction and Tom felt a fiery heat burning at his face. His hands curled into tight balls and he struggled to control the rage churning in his stomach that threatened to erupt in a bitter tirade. “Keep your fucking voice down,” he hissed, his head twisting nervously from side to side as his eyes took in the amused stares of the other inmates and their visitors. 

When Tom turned his head, Booker caught sight of the love bites covering the side of his neck and his eyes grew wide with disbelief. “Jesus Christ! It wasn’t a one off! How many men in here are fucking you, you whor—”

“DON’T!” Tom yelled and jumping to his feet, he leaned over the table, his eyes blazing with anger. “DON’T YOU _DARE_ CALL ME THAT AGAIN! WE’RE OVER BOOKER. THROUGH! FINISHED! _DONE!_ I DON’T LOVE YOU ANYMORE, SO WHY DON’T YOU JUST _FUCK OFF!”_

Officer Hanley hurried over and laid a restraining hand on Tom’s arm. “Sit down, Hanson, or the visits over,” he warned.

Tom stood his ground for several seconds before sitting stiffly back in his chair. Hanley studied the two men for a moment and satisfied that the argument was over, he walked away. Neither man spoke, both refusing to meet the other’s eye until eventually, Booker backed down. “Why?” he asked simply.

“Why what?” Tom retorted sullenly, his gaze remaining fixed on the table.

Booker clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles shone white. “Why did you cheat on me?”

“Because I thought you’d left me,” Tom murmured softly, his eyes misting over with tears, “I’m sorry, but until you’ve been through what I’ve been through, you can’t really judge me.” 

When Booker stared at him impassively, he continued with a heavy sigh. “Do you remember that conversation back at Harry’s apartment? You said no matter what, you’d always be by my side. Well, guess what? You keep walking away. I _needed_ you, Booker, more than I ever needed you before and you deserted me. You didn’t visit me for over two months… I didn’t know if you were sick, dead or if you just didn’t give a damn anymore. I was _lonely_ , Dennis, don’t you understand? I needed to feel loved.”

A long silence hung in the air before Booker spoke. “But then I _did_ visit you,” he replied bitterly, “and you didn’t say a word. Then two days later, I receive the photos and how the hell did you expect me to react? Jesus Christ, Tom, I _loved_ you and seeing you with that… that _criminal_ sickened me!”

“He’s no more of a criminal than I am,” Tom replied moodily. “We’ve both made mistakes and we’re paying for them. I spent two months in solitary confinement. Do you have _any_ idea what that’s like? I was teetering on the edge of insanity and Mosco brought me back. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be in the psych ward now, or worse… dead. So don’t blame me for falling in love with someone else, this is as much your doing as mine.”

Booker clenched his jaw and his dark eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Hanson. I’ve done the math, you cheated on me long before you went to solitary.” 

“Yeah, I did,” Tom conceded quietly, “and I’ve told you my reasons why. What you do with that information is up to you.”

When Booker remained stubbornly silent, he exhaled in exasperation. “Let’s face it, Booker, I’ll never be good enough for you, ‘cause no matter how hard I try, you always think you’re better than me.” 

Scraping back his chair, Booker stood up. “I came here willing to forgive you,” he replied through gritted teeth. “But screw you, Hanson. Enjoy your life of crime with your new _boyfriend_ , I’m done, I never want to see you again.”

“Suits me,” Tom muttered sulkily. “Why don’t you go find some passive people pleaser to fuck, ‘cause you obviously can’t handle someone who tells it like it is. Have a nice fucking life.”

However, as he watched Booker turn and walk away, the sudden feeling of loss was so overwhelming that a lump of emotion formed in his throat. He desperately wanted to call him back, to beg him not to go, so they could talk about everything that was wrong with their relationship and make it right. But the words caught in his throat and when he finally found his voice and cried out that he was sorry, it was too late. The man of his dreams was already gone.

**

_**Saturday March 31st 1990 (10.49 a.m.)** _

With a heavy heart, Tom took his time returning to his cell. He knew he would be in for a grilling from Mosco and he honestly had no idea what to say. Although he had told Booker it was over, at the last moment, as he watched his friend walk away, he had professed his sorrow loud enough for the other inmates to hear and he knew the news would soon get back to his cellmate. It was then that he realized he needed to be up front with his lover because hiding the truth had so far caused him nothing but heartache. He did not want to lose Mosco in the same way he had lost Booker and therefore, honesty was the only answer.

As he climbed the metal staircase up to the cells, he could hear furtive whispers from the inmates below and he knew the news had already traveled through the prison grapevine. His heart began to hammer in his chest and he hesitated for a moment to gather his wits before taking a deep breath and entering his cell.

Mosco lay on his bunk reading a battered crime novel. He pretended not to notice his lover, but when Tom nervously cleared his throat, he threw the book down impatiently and stared down at his antagonist. “ _What?”_ he demanded angrily. 

The color drained from Tom’s face and he anxiously chewed at his lower lip. “Um, can we talk?”

Picking up his book, Mosco stared sightlessly at the words on the page. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you, Chico. I heard what happened, so why don’t you run along and find some place quiet so you can jerk off and think about your _precious_ Dennis.”

Tom’s lips tilted in his trademark smile and stepping forward, he gazed up at Mosco with twinkling eyes. “If I wanted to get off I’d ask you to suck my dick,” he teased seductively. But when Mosco’s expression remained unmoved by the lame joke, he let out a heavy sigh. “Look, I know you’ve heard something about my visit with Booker, but I’m guessing it’s not an accurate account. So why don’t you let me tell you what _really_ went on and then if you’re still mad, I’ll leave. Deal?”

With a frustrated sigh, Mosco threw down his book and jumping from his bunk, he stood directly in front of Tom. “If you’re gonna lie to me, you’d better turn around and leave now,” he warned through gritted teeth.

There was no mistaking the threatening tone in Mosco’s voice and Tom swallowed fearfully. He could not lose another lover, not now, but he was terrified of Mosco’s reaction when he admitted that he had called Booker back, even though it had been too late. But he also knew that to lie was the coward’s way out. He needed to come clean and hope for the best.

Taking Mosco by the hand, he led him over to his bunk and sat down. When Mosco stubbornly remained standing, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Please,” he implored softly. “Just hear me out.”

Pushing his lower lip into a sulky pout, Mosco sat down next to Tom, his body rigid and his face set in an angry mask. “I’m listening.”

Fully aware that his first words would set the mood of the conversation, Tom hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I admit that I was excited when I first saw him,” he confessed in a soft voice, but when Mosco started to interrupt, he quickly held up his hand. “BUT… the feeling was only there for a moment, by the time I got to the table I was really angry.”

“ _Really?”_ Mosco queried, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “And why’s that?”

Tom slowly rubbed a hand over his top lip before replying. “Because he abandoned me without letting me explain about the photos. Then, when he has a crisis of conscience, he comes back in here acting like nothing’s wrong.”

Mosco narrowed his eyes. “Did you tell him that?”

Tom tipped back his head and exhaled a heavy breath. “Of _course_ I did. We got into a heated argument and Hanley came over and gave me a warning.” 

Mosco remained silent, but his cynical eye roll spoke volumes and Tom’s temper flared. “It’s true! If you don’t believe me, go ask him!”

It was then that Mosco’s reservations about Tom began to fade. He knew Hanley was a straight up kind of guy and the officer would not lie, especially for an inmate. As the minutes ticked by, an uncomfortable silence hung between them as Mosco mulled over what Tom had told him before asking the burning question. “If you were so angry with him, why did you tell him you were sorry?”

A flicker of sadness passed over Tom’s face and turning away from Mosco’s penetrative stare, he gazed out the open cell door at the activity on the floor below. “He was a big part of my life, Mosco, even if it was only for a couple of months,” he replied quietly. “He helped me get clean and he gave me comfort. Hell, he put his job on the line for me _twice_. But don’t mistake my gratitude for love, ‘cause I _don’t_ feel that way about him anymore. He may have helped get me out of the gutter, but he’s also really quick to knock me back down. I’m tired of his insults and how he’s always judging me. If he really loved me, he wouldn’t do that. Since coming here, I’ve realized I don’t need that bullshit in my life anymore. So yeah, I yelled out and told him I was sorry because I am, but that doesn’t mean I want him back. You may not believe it, but _you’re_ the one I love, not him, not anymore.”

It was one of the longest speeches Tom had given since his incarceration and when he had finished, he gazed morosely at the floor. He was certain Mosco’s jealousy would prevent him from seeing the truth and he instantly felt the painful loss of losing yet another lover. But when gentle fingers lovingly tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck, he lifted his head and his eyes immediately locked with Mosco’s loving gaze. “I believe you, Chico,” the Hispanic murmured softly, his eyes crinkling at the edges as a tender smile lit up his face. “And that Booker, he’s a fucking fool to let you go without a fight.”

Choked with emotion, Tom’s mouth hungrily found Mosco’s lips and wrapping his arms around his lover’s taut body, he kissed him passionately. When they finally stopped for air, he brushed the errant strands of hair from Mosco’s eyes and grinned cheekily. “Booker who?”


	35. Feliz Cumpleaños, Chico (Happy Birthday, Chico)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I apologise for the delay in posting this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: With a frustrated sigh, Mosco threw down his book and jumping from his bunk, he stood directly in front of Tom. “If you’re gonna lie to me, you’d better turn around and leave now,” he warned through gritted teeth._
> 
> _There was no mistaking the threatening tone in Mosco’s voice and Tom swallowed fearfully. He could not lose another lover, not now, but he was terrified of Mosco’s reaction when he admitted that he had called Booker back, even though it had been too late. But he also knew that to lie was the coward’s way out. He needed to come clean and hope for the best._
> 
> _Taking Mosco by the hand, he led him over to his bunk and sat down. When Mosco stubbornly remained standing, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Please,” he implored softly. “Just hear me out.”_
> 
> _Pushing his lower lip into a sulky pout, Mosco sat down next to Tom, his body rigid and his face set in an angry mask. “I’m listening.”_
> 
> _Fully aware that his first words would set the mood of the conversation, Tom hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I admit that I was excited when I first saw him,” he confessed in a soft voice, but when Mosco started to interrupt, he quickly held up his hand. “BUT… the feeling was only there for a moment, by the time I got to the table I was really angry.”_
> 
> _“Really?” Mosco queried, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “And why’s that?”_
> 
> _Tom slowly rubbed a hand over his top lip before replying. “Because he abandoned me without letting me explain about the photos. Then, when he has a crisis of conscience, he comes back in here acting like nothing’s wrong.”_
> 
> _Mosco narrowed his eyes. “Did you tell him that?”_
> 
> _Tom tipped back his head and exhaled a heavy breath. “Of course I did. We got into a heated argument and Hanley came over and gave me a warning.”_
> 
> _Mosco remained silent, but his cynical eye roll spoke volumes and Tom’s temper flared. “It’s true! If you don’t believe me, go ask him!”_
> 
> _It was then that Mosco’s reservations about Tom began to fade. He knew Hanley was a straight up kind of guy and the officer would not lie, especially for an inmate. As the minutes ticked by, an uncomfortable silence hung between them as Mosco mulled over what Tom had told him before asking the burning question. “If you were so angry with him, why did you tell him you were sorry?”_
> 
> _A flicker of sadness passed over Tom’s face and turning away from Mosco’s penetrative stare, he gazed out the open cell door at the activity on the floor below. “He was a big part of my life, Mosco, even if it was only for a couple of months,” he replied quietly. “He helped me get clean and he comforted me after that piece of shit raped me. Hell, he put his job on the line for me more than once. But don’t mistake my gratitude for love, ‘cause I don’t feel that way about him anymore. He may have helped get me out of the gutter, but he’s also really quick to knock me back down. I’m tired of his insults and how he’s always judging me. If he really loved me, he wouldn’t do that. Since coming here, I’ve realized I don’t need that bullshit in my life anymore. So yeah, I yelled out and told him I was sorry because I am, but that doesn’t mean I want him back. You may not believe it, but you’re the one I love, not him, not anymore.”_
> 
> _It was one of the longest speeches Tom had given since his incarceration and when he had finished, he gazed morosely at the floor. He was certain Mosco’s jealousy would prevent him from seeing the truth and he instantly felt the painful loss of losing yet another lover. But when gentle fingers lovingly tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck, he lifted his head and his eyes immediately locked with Mosco’s loving gaze. “I believe you, Chico,” the Hispanic murmured softly, his eyes crinkling at the edges as a tender smile lit up his face. “And that Booker, he’s a fucking fool to let you go without a fight.”_
> 
> _Choked with emotion, Tom’s mouth hungrily found Mosco’s lips and wrapping his arms around his lover’s taut body, he kissed him passionately. When they finally stopped for air, he brushed the errant strands of hair from Mosco’s eyes and grinned cheekily. “Booker who?”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170023473/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Friday June 1st 1990 (3.18 p.m.)** _

The unseasonably cold weather had taken everyone by surprise and jamming his hands deeper into his pockets, Tom shrugged his shoulders in a vain attempt to protect himself from the blustery conditions. He leaned casually against the perimeter wall of the exercise yard, silently watching a group of inmates playing a loud and energetic game of basketball. The men’s bodies dripped with sweat, despite the cold weather, but even though the participants appeared to be enjoying themselves, he felt no inclination to join them. His mind was preoccupied with other matters, matters that he had thought buried and forgotten until the Warden had called him in for a meeting and in a cold and somewhat matter-of-fact tone, had explained the situation. It had only taken a matter of seconds and a few short words to implode his world yet again and he wondered if he would ever know real peace, or if he was doomed to pay for his sins forever.

The sound of footsteps on gravel pulled him from his self-pitying reverie and refocusing his eyes, he exhaled heavily when he saw Mosco walking towards him. He was not in the mood to talk about his troubles, but he knew he would not be able to fool his lover into thinking he was okay; Mosco could read him like a book, which was both extremely comforting, but also somewhat annoying.

“Hey,” he murmured with a smile, but when he saw the shadow pass over his lover’s face, he knew he had failed miserably at his thinly veiled attempt to hide his inner turmoil.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Chico,” Mosco replied softly. “Something’s wrong.”

Tom lowered his gaze and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “It’s nothing, Mosco. I just got some news, that’s all.”

Unconcerned about their lack of privacy, Mosco wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist and pulled him close. “Tell me,” he whispered against Tom’s ear, his cold breath sending a shiver of desire down his lover’s spine. “Maybe I can help.”

Although moved by the concern in Mosco’s voice and craving the protectiveness of his warm embrace, Tom hated displaying their affections in public and pulling away, he took his lover’s hand in his and gently squeezed the chilled fingers. “Let’s talk in private.”

Mosco nodded and releasing Tom’s hand, the two men walked side-by-side back into the warmth of the prison. Taking a seat in the recreation room, Tom pulled off his woolen hat and throwing it onto the table, he launched straight into his speech without pausing to think what effect his statement might have on Mosco. “There’s something that happened to me that I never told you about, something that happened when I was in jail.”

A deep frown creased Mosco’s forehead and his voice sounded strained when he spoke. “Go on.”

With a sigh, Tom picked up his hat and fingered the stray woolen threads that had pulled free from the knitwear. “I was raped,” he whispered softly, his eyes remaining fixed on the woolen hat in his hands, “and the sonofabitch that did it goes on trial on Tuesday.”

The quiet confession had an immediate effect on Mosco and his hands curled into tight fists as he struggled to contain the mounting fury that reddened his face and sent tremors of rage throughout his tense body. Even though he was guilty of coercing Tom into having sex with him when they first met, his lover continued to assure him it had _not_ been rape. But now he understood why Tom had been so adamant; it was because someone _had_ violated him and the knowledge sent Mosco's mind spiraling into a tornado of emotions. As he stared at Tom, a thunderous fury racked his body when he thought of his beautiful Chico suffering such a brutal attack at the hands of some filthy criminal, but he also acknowledged the deep sense of remorse he felt for his own actions. For the thousandth time since he and Tom had begun a proper relationship, he wished he could turn back time and change what he had set in motion. But he could not. There was no way out of _the plan_ , not now, not ever.

Sensing Mosco’s anger, Tom laid a reassuring hand over his lover’s clenched fist. “It’s okay, it’s just... they want me to testify and I guess I’m freaking out about it. I put it behind me a long time ago and now…” His voice trailed off and resting his head in his hands, he struggled to fight back the tears that threatened to spill from his tortured eyes. “I want to forget my past,” he choked. “I just want to move on with my life and look towards the future.”

The Mosco of old would have selfishly indulged in his rage, but Tom often brought out the very best in him and pushing his murderous thoughts aside, he concentrated on giving his lover the comfort he needed. Getting up from his chair, he squatted next to Tom and placed a loving arm around his quivering shoulders. “And once you testify, Chico, you can,” he murmured against the soft flesh of Tom’s neck. “That hijo de puta _(motherfucker)_ deserves to rot in hell for what he did to you.”

Dipping his head, Tom brushed his lips against Mosco’s angry pout. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice choking with emotion.

Mosco remained silent, the lies that spilled so readily from his lips weighing heavy in his heart. Tom did not have a future, not anymore and it was all because of him.

**

_**Thursday June 7th 1990 (11.31 a.m.)** _

The thought of facing the man who had brutally stolen the final piece of his dignity had Tom teetering on the precipice of full-blown panic and he spent the nights leading up to Manning’s trial tossing fitfully on his narrow bunk, his mind unable to relax enough to sleep for more than an hour at a time. However, when the day had finally arrived and he stood at the witness stand, his body trembling with fear as Manning pursed his lips and blew him a kiss from his place at the dock, he had found an inner strength he had forgotten he possessed. It had not been easy, but he had refused to cower under Manning’s leering gaze and pulling himself up to his full height, he had recounted the day of his rape. During his testimony, he had remained so focused on giving a clear and concise account of the assault that his moment on the stand passed by in a blur of words and within minutes, he found himself sitting in the courthouse holding cells awaiting transportation back to the prison that had become his home. The day he had been dreading was finally over and he relaxed in the knowledge that he could put the whole incident behind him and move forward.

The following day, he had received notification from the Warden that the jury had found Manning guilty of sexual assault and his sentence was three years imprisonment. It was a huge relief knowing that his rapist would have to spend time in prison for his crime and he felt a huge weight lifting from his shoulders. For the first time in days, he felt as though the universe was once again smiling down on him and life was good. However, his elation was short-lived and the following day, his world once again imploded. 

Standing next to the pool table with his cue in hand waiting for Mosco to take his shot, Diaz nudged him in the arm. “Looks like we’ve got some new fish.”

Glancing over to the doorway with interest, the curious grin that was forming on Tom’s lips quickly froze and the color drained from his face. At first, he thought he must be hallucinating, but as the line of half a dozen men followed Hanley towards the cells, he knew what he was witnessing was not his fevered imagination conjuring up visions from his past, but stone cold reality. 

Leroy Manning was now a prisoner in D Block.

The pool cue slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly to the floor, the sound immediately catching Mosco’s attention. When the Hispanic caught sight of his lover’s expression of fear, he threw down his own cue and hurrying over, he tenderly held Tom’s face in the palms of his hands. “What’s wrong, Chico?” he whispered, his gaze desperately searching his friend’s terrified eyes for answers.

For several seconds, Tom was unable to speak. His body remained paralyzed with a panic that caused a tightening around his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe and as he struggled to draw in some much-needed oxygen, his eyes bulged in fear and his fingers grasped frantically at Mosco’s shirtsleeves. “It’s… him,” he wheezed. “It’s…” But his anxiety had now become a full-scale panic attack and with one final gasp, his knees buckled from beneath him and his eyes rolled back in his head as darkness shrouded his mind and he fell into a dead faint.

With a grunt, Mosco managed to catch Tom before he hit the floor and holding his unconscious lover in his arms, his eyes glinted murderously at the backs of the men ascending the stairs. He had no idea who _‘him’_ was, but when he found out, there would be hell to pay.

**

_**Saturday June 9th 1990 (4.38 a.m.)** _

The rhythmic resonance of loud snoring pervaded the early morning silence, but Tom found the cadence strangely soothing. Sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bunk, he stared silently out into the darkness as his fingers picked at the woolen pills scattered across the thin blanket covering his knees. Since Manning’s arrival two days before, a tight ball of anxiety knotted his stomach, tensing his muscles and making it difficult for him to eat or sleep. He was permanently on edge, jumping at the slightest noise or unexpected touch and he found himself withdrawing from those around him. For the most part, Manning had kept his distance and he had figured it was Mosco’s constant presence that kept his rapist at bay. However, even knowing that Mosco was only ever a few feet from his side, he did not feel safe. Officer Howell hated him and all it would take was a few dollar bills changing hands for him to find himself alone with the man who had ultimately destroyed the last shred of his innocence.

The squeak of the well-worn bedsprings above his head alerted him to Mosco’s presence and he watched as his lover jumped lithely to the floor and sat down next to him. When a comforting hand ruffled his hair, he closed his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of exacting pleasure from his lover’s affectionate touch. Seconds later, a warm mouth brushed against his forehead and opening his eyes, he sought out the fullness of Mosco’s lips. The two men kissed lovingly for a moment before Tom murmured a greeting against the soft flesh. “Hey.”

Mosco’s mouth twitched into a tender smile and breaking the kiss, he gazed fondly into Tom’s brown eyes. “Feliz Cumpleaños _(Happy Birthday)_ , Chico” he whispered softly. “Do you want your present now?”

Tom’s eyes flashed with arousal and a slow, mischievous smile played over his lips. It was his twenty-fifth birthday and even though he would never have imagined that he would spend it in prison, he was happy to be sharing the milestone with the man he adored. “What did you get me?” he asked playfully.

Taking the opportunity to nip and suck at the inviting flesh of Tom’s lower lip, Mosco pulled away the blanket and ran his fingers lightly over his lover’s boxer-clad cock. “Whatever you want, mi chico hermoso,” he murmured. “Today, it’s all about you.”

A shiver of excitement ran down Tom’s spine and gazing into his lover’s startling green eyes, he made his request. “I wanna fuck your mouth.”

Mosco slowly moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, the seductive gesture immediately intensifying Tom’s arousal and getting to his feet, the Hispanic held out his hand. “Stand up,” he instructed softly. “I wanna do this right.”

Tom’s cock hardened at the thought of what was to come and for the first time in nearly two days, he forgot all about Leroy Manning. Taking Mosco’s hand in his, he stood up and followed his lover over to the darkest corner of the cell before positioning his back against the cold cement wall. When gentle hands lowered his boxers, the coolness of the air danced over his sensitive cockhead, eliciting a barely audible gasp from between his lips and when skilled fingers lightly played over his growing erection, the gasp transformed into a low moan. He was in for a treat and he could not wait.

Mosco soaked up the emotional sight of Tom’s blissful expression and a deep stirring of love swelled within his heart. It had been difficult to witness his lover’s mounting levels of anxiety knowing that he had to bide his time until he could _fix_ the problem at hand. He had even taken the unprecedented step of meeting with the Warden and all but begging him to transfer Manning to a different Block, but Simpson had met his request with an unsympathetic refusal. The Warden had explained that the Californian penal system was in the throes of a crisis and that all the prisons were running at maximum capacity, with some experiencing the fatal effects of overcrowding. In a direct and forthright manner, Simpson had laid the cards on the table; Tom needed to toughen up and accept Manning as an inmate of D Block or he could spend the remainder of his sentence in solitary. 

However, in Mosco’s mind, neither of the Warden’s suggestions offered a satisfactory resolution to the problem and so he had devised his own plan, a plan that he intended to carry out that very day. But the feel of Tom’s erection hardening beneath his touch reminded him that he had a more pleasurable issue to attend to and dropping to his knees, he gazed seductively up at Tom through his long, dark lashes. “Do you want me to kiss it, mi amante _(my lover)_ , or do you want me to suck you hard?”

Tom’s legs began to tremble and reaching out, he weaved his fingers through Mosco’s tousled hair and slowly guided his lover’s head forward. “Kiss it,” he murmured, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

Mosco grinned. He knew what Tom liked and he was more than willing to give him what he wanted. Moistening his lips in preparation, he smiled slightly and pressed his mouth against the smooth flesh of Tom’s cockhead.

“Ohhh,” Tom breathed softly, his fingers gently pulling at Mosco’s thick tresses. “Ohhh, _yeah_.”

With an unrivaled expertise, Mosco took Tom’s hardening member into his mouth and using his tongue and lips, he gently teased it to life. Within minutes, there was a growing urgency in Tom’s thrusts and opening his throat, he allowed his lover to fuck his mouth. A steady rhythmic grunting sounded from above and closing his eyes, he reveled in the unique flavor of the saliferous precum that coated his tongue. His own thickening cock jutted out proudly, seeking his attention and reaching down, he released it from the confines of his boxers and tugged gently. Almost immediately, the sapidity mixing with his saliva grew stronger and opening his eyes, he glanced upwards to see Tom’s desirous gaze taking in the salacious sight.

“I’m close,” Tom gasped, his hips thrusting violently forwards and backward with erotic abandon. “Oh, Mosco… oh, God… oh… oh… _OHHH!”_

Warm semen flooded Mosco’s throat, the erogenous sensation fueling his own sexual appetite and with several quick strokes, he brought himself to orgasm. With a contented sigh, he stroked his softening cock as he lapped and sucked lovingly at Tom’s dwindling erection. He took his time, his tongue savoring the salty flavors that awakened his taste buds, but when gentle hands beckoned him from above, he climbed slowly to his feet. A warm inviting mouth immediately sought out his mouth and wrapping his arms around his lover, he pulled him close and kissed him affectionately. He would do whatever it took to protect the man whose quivering body he held in his arms, even if he ended up spending years in prison, or worse, facing the death penalty. In his mind, the risk was worth it. All that mattered was seeing his beloved Chico, safe and happy for the short time he had left.

**

_**Saturday June 9th 1990 (3.58 p.m.)** _

Eleven hours later and Mosco stood secreted in the shadows behind the metal staircase that led up to the cells. His emerald eyes narrowed into angry slits, the expression hardening his handsome features and it was obvious by the murderous look on his face that the cold heartened criminal that still lurked beneath the surface of his being had reawakened. He watched with a growing hostility as Manning sauntered into the bathroom after a heavy workout at the gym, the large man's swagger portraying the self-confidence of one who considered himself impervious to harm and his cockiness only served to inflame the fury boiling deep inside Mosco’s soul. Although itching to exact justice, his hands clenched and unclenched in a steady rhythm of self-control. He needed to exercise restraint and pick _exactly_ the right moment to make his move, otherwise the personal risk he was about to take would all be in vain. It was a matter of timing and he was skilled in the art of stealthy observation. 

He was the lion and Manning the gazelle.

An inconspicuous nod from Diaz gave him the all clear to act and with one last furtive glance around him, he walked into the shower room. Manning stood alone, naked as the day he was born and looking up, he gave Mosco an appreciative once over. “You shouldn’t sneak up on a man in prison, _Paco_ ,” he sneered. “If you’re not careful, you might find a shank in your gut, or worse… a cock up your ass.”

Mosco stared at the enormous appendage dangling between Manning’s massive thighs. “Impressive,” he crooned, his bright eyes twinkling seductively. 

Manning ran his tongue over his thick lips as he studied Mosco’s muscular physique. “Do you wanna taste me, green eyes?” he whispered and taking his cock in his meaty hand, he began to stroke himself to hardness. “I know you _Cholos_ love to suck dick.”

“Yes, we do,” Mosco replied softly and he stepped closer to his prey, his body moving with the fluidity of an exotic dancer… lithe and sensual, with a hint of enticement. “But first, I wanna feel that big cock.”

With a low moan, Manning released his growing erection and allowed Mosco’s skilled fingers to play over his shaft. “That’s it, Paco,” he groaned, “make me hard so I can fuck that pretty mouth.”

Mosco’s lips curled into a docile smile, but when the big man's eyes fluttered closed, the smile quickly turned into a cruel sneer and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his homemade shiv and in one quick motion, he jammed it into Manning's carotid artery. It was a well-designed move and leaving the shank buried in Manning's thick neck, he backed away. When he reached the safety of the doorway, he watched his plan unfolded in a movie-like surreal slow motion. He knew enough about human nature to know what was about to happen and his eyes flashed with a morbid fascination as Manning reached up a meaty hand and pulled out the homemade knife.

Blood immediately gushed from the wound, the spurting fountain of fluid splattering against the walls, the stream of blood creating a macabre painting of bright crimson splashes. Manning dropped to his knees, his hand now ineffectively clamped over his wound. "Oh, God... help... me!" he spluttered.

Mosco stared coldly into Manning’s panicked eyes. “God won't help you, you fucking violador _(rapist)_ ," he murmured quietly and turning away, he walked from the room, leaving Manning to die alone on the floor.


	36. Sold Down the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Saturday June 9th 1990 (3.58 p.m.)_
> 
> _Eleven hours later and Mosco stood secreted in the shadows behind the metal staircase that led up to the cells. His emerald eyes narrowed into angry slits, the expression hardening his handsome features and it was obvious by the murderous look on his face that the cold heartened criminal that still lurked beneath the surface of his being had reawakened. He watched with a growing hostility as Manning sauntered into the bathroom after a heavy workout at the gym, the large man's swagger portraying the self-confidence of one who considered himself impervious to harm and his cockiness only served to inflame the fury boiling deep inside Mosco’s soul. Although itching to exact justice, his hands clenched and unclenched in a steady rhythm of self-control. He needed to exercise restraint and pick exactly the right moment to make his move, otherwise the personal risk he was about to take would all be in vain. It was a matter of timing and he was skilled in the art of stealthy observation._
> 
> _He was the lion and Manning the gazelle._
> 
> _An inconspicuous nod from Diaz gave him the all clear to act and with one last furtive glance around him, he walked into the shower room. Manning stood alone, naked as the day he was born and looking up, he gave Mosco an appreciative once over. “You shouldn’t sneak up on a man in prison, Paco,” he sneered. “If you’re not careful, you might find a shank in your gut, or worse… a cock up your ass.”_
> 
> _Mosco stared at the enormous appendage dangling between Manning’s massive thighs. “Impressive,” he crooned, his bright eyes twinkling seductively._
> 
> _Manning ran his tongue over his thick lips as he studied Mosco’s muscular physique. “Do you wanna taste me, green eyes?” he whispered and taking his cock in his meaty hand, he began to stroke himself to hardness. “I know you Cholos love to suck dick.”_
> 
> _“Yes, we do,” Mosco replied softly and he stepped closer to his prey, his body moving with the fluidity of an exotic dancer… lithe and sensual, with a hint of enticement. “But first, I wanna feel that big cock.”_
> 
> _With a low moan, Manning released his growing erection and allowed Mosco’s skilled fingers to play over his shaft. “That’s it, Paco,” he groaned, “make me hard so I can fuck that pretty mouth.”_
> 
> _Mosco’s lips curled into a docile smile, but when the big man's eyes fluttered closed, the smile quickly turned into a cruel sneer and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his homemade shiv and in one quick motion, he jammed it into Manning's carotid artery. It was a well-designed move and leaving the shank buried in Manning's thick neck, he backed away. When he reached the safety of the doorway, he watched his plan unfolded in a movie-like surreal slow motion. He knew enough about human nature to know what was about to happen and his eyes flashed with a morbid fascination as Manning reached up a meaty hand and pulled out the homemade knife._
> 
> _Blood immediately gushed from the wound, the spurting fountain of fluid splattering against the walls, the stream of blood creating a macabre painting of bright crimson splashes. Manning dropped to his knees, his hand now ineffectively clamped over his wound. "Oh, God... help... me!" he spluttered._
> 
> _Mosco stared coldly into Manning’s panicked eyes. “God won't help you, you fucking violador (rapist)," he murmured quietly and turning away, he walked from the room, leaving Manning to die alone on the floor._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170022833/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**11 months later - Monday May 13th 1991 (11.18 a.m.)** _

At first glance, the piece of paper in Tom’s hand appeared innocuous enough, but the words printed on a City of Los Angeles letterhead had impacted his world in a way that had his heart thumping painfully in his chest from the conflicting sensory overload he was experiencing. A combination of euphoria mixed with rampant panic sent shivers surging through his body and his hand shook uncontrollably, making it difficult for him to reexamine the letter he held between his fingers. His brain was still having difficulty comprehending what it was that he was actually reading, but eventually the words sank in… despite his time in solitary, the Board had granted his parole and he was due for release the following week. 

To say that he was shocked would have been an understatement. He had met with the Board a week before and in his mind, the meeting had not gone well. Aside from the reference to his time in the hole for attacking Officer Howell, the members had quizzed him extensively about Leroy Manning’s bloody and untimely death. However, although he had his suspicions, he did not know for certain whether Mosco was responsible or not and so he had feigned any knowledge of the death. In actuality, his lover had pleaded innocence when asked outright if he was responsible for Manning’s murder, but the spark of amusement in his emerald eyes told Tom that even if he had not been the one to ram the shiv into Leroy’s neck, he had ordered the hit. It had been a difficult realization to come to and he found himself grappling with the idea that his lover _could be_ a cold-blooded killer. However, his feelings of uncertainty and fear had quickly vanished when he recognized the risk Mosco had taken for him. If he was honest with himself, he did not mourn the death of the man who had violated him; he was in fact relieved and deep down, he knew he owed Mosco a huge debt for ridding the world of a monster. It was an awareness that often had him contemplating the shift in his moral compass. As little as a year ago, he would have expressed an abject horror at the thought of the man he loved killing another human being, but now, he did not care. He was safe in the knowledge that Manning would never cause pain to another man or woman in the way _he_ had suffered and even though it had taken some soul-searching, he was now comfortable with that fact. Initially, he had fought against the system that was slowly swallowing him whole, but the brutality of day-to-day prison life had finally claimed the last vestiges of the Tom Hanson of old. He was a changed man, a tougher, less compassionate man and he wondered if he would ever regain the feeling of empathy that had faded from his soul.

The sound of footsteps brought his thoughts back to the present and looking up, he saw Mosco standing in the doorway of their cell, his sparkling green eyes gazing at him with interest. “Whatcha got there, Chico?” his lover asked softly.

Tom knew there was no point in lying and with a nervous smile, he held the letter out to Mosco. “It’s a letter from the Parole Board… they’re releasing me next week.”

As the meaning of Tom’s words sank in, the color drained from Mosco’s face. The time had come… the time when _the plan_ would be set in motion and he would lose the only man he had ever loved. The hand of fate’s cold fingers squeezed at his heart and for a fraction of a second, he thought it might stop beating altogether, leaving him to die on the floor of his cell. But when strong, comforting arms pulled him close, the pressure around his still beating heart lessened and choking in a breath, he nuzzled against the warmth of Tom’s body. He was _el Jefe_ and he needed to push aside his emotional attachments and carry out the orders handed down to him because otherwise, he would face a torturous and prolonged death at the hands of those he considered his compañeros de armas _(comrades in arms)_.

With his thoughts now in order, he disengaged himself from the reassuring hug and gently taking the piece of paper from his lover’s hand, he stared blindly at the words and pretended to read what was, in _his_ eyes, Tom’s death warrant. “That’s great news, Chico,” he lied with a fake smile. “This time next week, you’ll be a free man.”

Sensing Mosco’s mixed feelings about his news, Tom took back the letter and folding it carefully, he put it in his pocket. “My release doesn’t mean you and I are over,” he stated softly. “You’re up for parole in eight months and when you get out, I’ll have a place and you and I can—” 

“Take up where we left off?” Mosco asked with a hint of bitterness. “What about Booker? I bet you're just itchin’ to see him.”

A deep frown creased Tom’s brow and his lower lip pushed into a moody pout. “I _told_ you, I’m not interested in Booker anymore,” he replied irritably. “I’m gonna get a job and my own place… well, first I’ll have to live in a halfway house, which will suck, but once I get a job, I’ll find somewhere for us to live and when you’re released we can put our pasts behind us and build a life...”

Blissfully unaware that he had just handed Mosco the perfect opening to set _the plan_ in motion, Tom continued to talk enthusiastically about his plans for the future. But Mosco barely heard a word; a cold shiver of impending doom slowly consumed him, swallowing his jealousy in its wake. He knew he should interrupt and make the offer his _Jefa_ had instructed him to make, but the words stuck in his throat. Love had muted his voice and he found himself fighting an inner demon that was hell bent on _making_ him say the dreaded words that had played over in his mind every night for the past fourteen months. It was a battle of wills, but he knew the ending would be inevitable. It was not the fear of death that made him choose his side; it was the fierce loyalty to those who had been his family since the age of twelve. He owed them so much and as much as it tore him up inside, he knew he had to respect their wishes.

Taking a deep breath, he laid a hand on Tom’s arm and gave him a loving smile. “That all sounds great, Chico, but you’re right, living in a halfway house won’t be easy. So how ‘bout I make a call and see if a woman I know is interested in taking you in until you get back on your feet. She’s always looking for boarders and she owes me a favor or two.”

Tom’s dark eyes shone with happiness. He had been dreading the idea of moving into a halfway house and now it appeared _someone_ had answered his silent prayers. “Really?” he asked in a voice that sounded childlike in its high-pitched enthusiasm. “Do you think she’ll agree?”

The excitement in Tom’s voice caused Mosco’s heart to plummet, but he managed to keep his expression cheerful. “I reckon you can count on it.”

**

_**Monday May 20th 1991 (10.11 a.m.)** _

Tom’s final week in prison had dragged by with a tedium born out of a daily routine. He woke in the morning, Mosco made love to him, he showered, he ate breakfast, he played pool, he ate lunch, he exercised, he talked, he ate dinner, he returned to his cell, he and Mosco fooled around and he fell asleep. It was a monotonous cycle and he wondered how it would feel to have the freedom to do something other than eat, sleep and fuck. Not that he considered the fucking boring; Mosco was an experienced and energetic lover, but he longed for some privacy and the luxury of being able to spread out on a king-sized bed and fully appreciate his lover’s body. The realization that it would be at least eight months before he would be able to feel Mosco’s flesh beneath his touch caused a physical ache in his heart, but he understood that he needed to be patient and in time, he would finally begin to live his life with the man he loved by his side.

However, as he stood in the middle of his cell clutching a brown paper bag to his chest, he felt a deep emotional sadness welling up inside him. He would walk out of prison free from the shackles of his past, but he would do it alone. He had no one on the outside to welcome him; his mother had all but abandoned him and his friends were now just distant memories. In the final days leading up to his release, his thoughts had turned to Booker and Ioki, and he had found himself wondering what they were doing with their lives. Were they in serious relationships? Had they changed jobs? Were they still friends? The list went on and on, but he kept his reflections to himself out of respect for Mosco. He knew his lover was fiercely jealous of Booker and the relationship they had once shared, but he spoke the truth when he reassured him that it was all in the past. Although he had long ago forgiven Booker for the appalling way he had treated him, he no longer carried a torch for the dark haired officer. That ship had sailed and he now regarded him as someone who had influenced his life in an emotionally confused whirlwind of intense love, pain, and misery. Never had one person brought out both the very best and the very worst in him and when he thought about their brief relationship, he wondered how he could have loved a man he was so incompatible with. It was the sixty-four thousand dollar question many couples had been asking themselves since the dawn of time and there seemed to be no definitive answer. Many writers had attempted to define love with flowery poetry and fancy prose, but the truth was, when the intense emotion swelled within you, making your heart race and your stomach somersault, you had no control over it. 

Love… just… was. Period.

Shaking his head slightly, he brought his thoughts back to the present. He wasn’t alone, he had a future with Mosco and in eight months time, they would be free to begin their lives together. But until then, he needed to get his own life in order and thanks to his lover, he had achieved his first goal; he now had a place to live. It sounded ideal; Mosco’s friend Ana would give him free room and board in exchange for taking care of her five-year-old son when she worked nights at the family business. It appeared to be the perfect arrangement; he would be free during the day to look for a job and he liked kids. When he had asked Mosco about the family business, his lover had become evasive, stating only that it had something to do with importing and exporting, but in truth, he did not really care. He no longer had to entertain the idea of living in a group home filled with other men and he could not have been happier. Things were finally looking up.

The sound of footsteps echoed in his ears and turning towards the open cell door, his dark eyes widened in surprise when Mosco walked into the cell. He thought they had said their final goodbyes early that morning in the privacy of their darkened cell during a tender yet passionate coupling and he found himself unprepared for the wash of raw emotion that began to flood through his body. Tears filled his eyes and dropping the brown paper bag to the floor, he rushed forward and wrapping his arms around his lover, he pulled him close.

Strong arms hugged him tight before releasing their hold. Mourning the loss of contact, he looked up and was shocked to see tears glistening in Mosco’s eyes. He started to speak, but his lover placed a gentle finger against his lips. “Shh, Chico,” the Hispanic whispered softly. “I want you to shut up and listen. Whatever happens, always remember that I love you and we’ll be together soon, okay?”

An unexpected shiver ran down Tom’s spine, but he quickly pushed aside the feeling of foreboding and reaching out a hand, he gently caressed Mosco’s scarred cheek. “I lo—”

“Break it up ladies,” Howell growled from the cell’s entrance.

Ignoring the hack’s insult, Tom stepped closer and pressing his lips against the soft flesh of Mosco’s pout, he kissed him tenderly. “I love you too.”

Mosco’s emerald eyes shimmered with tears, but he managed a crooked smile. “See you soon, mi chico hermoso.”

Not willing to give Howell the satisfaction of a teary goodbye, Tom smiled back. “You can bet your life on it.”

**

_**Monday May 20th 1991 (10.48 a.m.)** _

A cool breeze blew through the prison car park, chilling Tom’s skin. Squatting down, he rummaged through the brown paper bag and pulling out a bandana, he tied it around his head. Next, he took out the only coat he owned, a lightweight, army-style jacket and standing back up, he put it on and pulled up the zipper. His eyes darted anxiously up and down the road that ran adjacent to the prison, desperately searching for Ana’s green Toyota. Imaginary butterflies fluttered nervously in his stomach; it had been a long time since he had conversed with a woman and he wondered what Ana was like. Thoughts of Judy popped into his head and he grinned when he remembered how close they had once been. But his lips soon twisted into something resembling a grimace and he quickly pushed all thoughts of Judy from his mind. To remember their friendship was just too painful and he was determined to live life to the fullest and not dwell on the past. This was his second chance.

The sound of an engine backfiring startled him back to the present and turning his head, he saw a battered metallic green Corolla Tercel pulling into the car park. His anxiety levels rose and he nervously rubbed his sweaty palms against the legs of his jeans before bending down and picking up his meager possessions. When the car stopped in front of him, the window wound down and an attractive woman with long dark hair smiled at him. “Tom?”

The woman’s smile was open and friendly and Tom immediately felt at ease. Walking up to the car, he held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ana. I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing for me.”

Ana hesitated for a moment before grasping his hand in a brief shake. “Don’t mention it. The pleasure’s _all_ mine.”

Tom’s grin broadened and walking around to the passenger side of the car, he opened the door and climbed in. He was finally free to begin a new life and he could not have been happier.

Slamming the car into gear, Ana sped out of the car park. She was struggling to contain the hatred churning in her stomach, but she knew she needed to play it cool because if Tom suspected that she was Juan Álvarez’s wife, she would not get a chance to exact revenge on her husband's murderer.


	37. The Gift of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I have condensed quite a lot into this chapter and the reason for this is threefold.**
> 
> **Firstly, my dad has been rushed to hospital three times in the last ten days and my concentration is a little out of whack. It has been a stressful time and I’m having trouble sleeping. Therefore, the quality of my work isn’t brilliant and I ask that you please cut me some slack. My mind is not where it should be.**
> 
> **Secondly, I feel this story is starting to drag on too long and I wanted to move into the final phase. I hope these “snap shots” over a thirty-six hour period are not too disjointed.**
> 
> **Thirdly and lastly, I have grown extremely attached to Mosco and I could not bear to drag out his scene in explicit detail. I know many of you were not too happy with the Tom/Mosco dynamic, but I hope you might view it a little differently after this chapter. As my dear friend[Aisha Tsufurujin](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/KundryAthalia/profile) pointed out to me, he has very similar personality traits to Chris Keller from the brilliant HBO series, OZ. I did not intentionally create this character with Keller in mind, but obviously, something in my subconscious thoughts came through.**
> 
> **I also could not bear to detail what happens to Tom in this chapter. I feel I have put him through enough and it is time for some healing. There is still a little way to go, but I think all of you will be happy with the outcome.**
> 
> **So there it is, all my excuses lol. With that said, I hope you do enjoy this chapter, even though it is rather brutal.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage xx**
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  _Previously: May 20th 1991 (10.48 a.m.)_
> 
> _A cool breeze blew through the prison car park, chilling Tom’s skin. Squatting down, he rummaged through the brown paper bag and pulling out a bandana, he tied it around his head. Next, he took out the only coat he owned, a lightweight, army-style jacket and standing back up, he put it on and pulled up the zipper. His eyes darted anxiously up and down the road that ran adjacent to the prison, desperately searching for Ana’s green Toyota. Imaginary butterflies fluttered nervously in his stomach; it had been a long time since he had conversed with a woman and he wondered what Ana was like. Thoughts of Judy popped into his head and he grinned when he remembered how close they had once been. But his lips soon twisted into something resembling a grimace and he quickly pushed all thoughts of Judy from his mind. To remember their friendship was just too painful and he was determined to live life to the fullest and not dwell on the past. This was his second chance._
> 
> _The sound of an engine backfiring startled him back to the present and turning his head, he saw a battered metallic green Corolla Tercel pulling into the car park. His anxiety levels rose and he nervously rubbed his sweaty palms against the legs of his jeans before bending down and picking up his meager possessions. When the car stopped in front of him, the window wound down and an attractive woman with long dark hair smiled at him. “Tom?”_
> 
> _The woman’s smile was open and friendly and Tom immediately felt at ease. Walking up to the car, he held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ana. I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing for me.”_
> 
> _Ana hesitated for a moment before grasping his hand in a brief shake. “Don’t mention it. The pleasure’s all mine.”_
> 
> _Tom’s grin broadened and walking around to the passenger side of the car, he opened the door and climbed in. He was finally free to begin a new life and he could not have been happier._
> 
> _Slamming the car into gear, Ana sped out of the car park. She was struggling to contain the hatred churning in her stomach, but she knew she needed to play it cool because if Tom suspected that she was Juan Álvarez’s wife, she would not get a chance to exact revenge on her husband's murderer._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170022703/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Monday May 20th 1991 (12.11 p.m.)** _

The chill of the cement flooring cooled Tom’s flushed cheek, the sharpness of the sensation helping keep him conscious. He struggled to lift his head, but a stiletto-heeled boot kept his face pushed firmly against the warehouse floor, the continuous pressure causing a dull pain in his already aching head. The acrid smell of motor oil assaulted his nostrils and his stomach churned as rising nausea threatened to bring up his breakfast. But fearing he would choke against the gag in his mouth, he quickly swallowed down the vomit and concentrated on not passing out. His mind was a tornado of confusion; one minute he had been happily chatting to Ana, and the next, a blow to the head had knocked him to his knees. Within seconds, two men had tackled him to the ground and as one gagged him, the other bound his hands and feet. Stunned by the attack, he had tried to sit up and it was then that Ana had roughly pushed him back to the floor with her foot. Although his mind was spinning, he was lucid enough to understand that he was in trouble… _big_ trouble.

The toe of Ana’s boot ground into his cheek, the friction reddening his face. He started to mumble through the material of the gag, but the dark haired woman beat him to the punch. “Do you know who I am, hijo de puta _(motherfucker)?”_

Twisting his head so he could look up at Ana through wide, terrified eyes, Tom attempted to shake his head.

Ana’s cherry-red lips pulled back into a sinister grin. “Interesting,” she murmured and pushing down with her foot, she gave Tom a quizzical look. “So, let me get this straight. After murdering el amor de mi vida _(the love of my life)_ , you didn’t bother to check what family he left behind, is that right? Well, let me tell you, _Chico_ , not knowing about me was a mistake… a _huge_ mistake. I have eyes and ears everywhere in this town _and_ the loyalty of mi gente _(my people)_. Mosco may be el Jefe in that stinking prison, but I’m _la Jefa_ out here. You thought Miguel was your lover, but he was working for me all along and guess what, you pedazo de mierda _(piece of shit)_ , he sold you down the river. Say hello to your executioner, _Tommy_ and let me warn you, it’s gonna be painful, it’s gonna be bloody and I’m gonna have a whole lotta fun.”

Tom’s blood began to pound in his ears and he swallowed down a sob. The last fourteen months of his life had been a lie. Mosco had not loved him; he had preyed on him like a spider, drawing him into his web and leaving him vulnerable to face a stronger, more powerful predator. Everything he had believed to be real; the intimacy, the friendship, the love, they were all part of a plan to deliver him to Ana, and the plan had worked. Now he lay defenseless on the floor of a disused warehouse, gagged, bound and outnumbered three-to-one, and he knew he would not get out alive. The irony of his situation was not lost on him; it was poetic in its perfection. Juan Álvarez’s blood had drained from his body onto the floor of an abandoned warehouse and he was now facing exactly the same fate. But although the realization was terrifying in its certainty, as he breathed in the oily fumes he had a moment of spiritual awakening. He was exhausted, bone-wearily, dog-tiredly exhausted and he yearned for eternal peace. The distressing knowledge that Mosco had never loved him meant that he really _was_ alone and with that realization, the last remnant of hope that had clung to the edges of his soul slowly ebbed away. He no longer had the energy to fight for a better life; it was easier to give up than face the brutalities of the world alone.

He was done.

Blinking back the tears that had threatened to spill from his dark eyes, he gave Ana a steadfast gaze and mumbled two, final words through the bounds of his gag. “Do it.”

**

_**Monday May 20th 1991 (1.08 p.m.)** _

Lost in a mountain of paperwork after a successful drug bust, the piercing shrill of his phone coming to life caused Harry to jump involuntarily. Annoyed at the interruption, he snatched up the receiver. “Ioki,” he barked in a tone that was a little more abrupt than usual, but when the voice on the other end of the line spoke, his brow knitted into a deep frown and leaning back in his chair, he answered the woman’s question in a calmer voice. “I accept.”

Several long seconds passed before a male voice finally spoke. “Is this Officer Harry Ioki?”

It was not the voice Harry had expected to hear and he immediately grew wary. “It is. Who’s this?”

There was a long pause before the man spoke again, his voice somewhat hesitant. “The name’s Miguel Mosco and I have some information for you.”

Harry straightened up in his chair. He knew _exactly_ who Miguel Mosco was and he was in no mood to talk to the criminal who by all accounts, was now Hanson’s boyfriend. His loyalty lay with Booker and he knew the dark haired officer would be furious if he knew he had engaged in friendly chitchat with the man who had stolen Tom away from him. He felt uncomfortable and he decided to end the conversation before it became even more troublesome. 

“Look,” he stated firmly, “I don’t know why you’re phoning me, but I won’t—”

"Shut up and listen to me 'cause you’re gonna want to hear this,” Mosco hissed down the phone. “Tom's in trouble.”

As Mosco continued to speak, the color drained from Harry’s face and covering the mouthpiece of the phone, he screamed out to his co-workers. “FIND BOOKER! SOMEBODY FIND BOOKER… _NOW!”_

**

_**Monday May 20th 1991 (1.58 p.m.)** _

With his bound wrists attached to a large pulley hanging from a metal ceiling support, Tom’s naked body swayed lifelessly, the tips of his broken toes grazing the stained cement floor. His head lolled against his chest and his swollen eyes gazed sightlessly downwards at the thick puddle of blood that pooled at his feet. Crimson fluid coated almost every inch of his battered body, but for Booker, the image of his ex-lover dangling bloody and broken by his shackled wrists barely registered in his mind because his horrified stare remained focused on the metal tire iron someone had rammed into Tom’s anus. It was a surreal sight and at first, he thought his mind was lost within the realms of a terrifying nightmare. But when the realization hit him that someone really _had_ brutally sodomized Tom with the apparatus, hot bile rose from the pit of his stomach and a cold sweat prickled his brow. His world immediately began to spin and he staggered backward as his senses shut down. He could hear someone yelling, but the words sounded muffled, almost as if the speaker was under water. Police officers started running around the room, but from his perspective, everyone was moving in slow motion, like a scene from a movie that the director had decelerated for dramatic effect. Harry appeared from nowhere and spoke directly at him, his full lips moving at lightning speed and his pale face contorted into a frightened mask of disbelief and horror. But the rush of words screamed into his face floated past him unheard because his mind refused to awaken from the paralysis that had numbed his senses. He was caught somewhere between reality and a nightmare and he was incapable of drawing his eyes away from the macabre sight in front of him. His Tommy was dead and all that remained was a piece of bloody meat hanging from the ceiling like a carcass in a slaughterhouse.

Time ticked by indiscriminately, but eventually his senses came back to life and with a strangled cry, he fell to his knees. “ _NOOO!”_ he screamed, his face twisted in pain. “ _TOMMEEE!”_

Strong hands grabbed him roughly by his shirtfront and Harry’s furious face came back into view. “He’s alive! Now get your shit together and help me get him down!”

Ioki’s words took a moment to penetrate Booker’s addled mind and staring up through tear-clumped lashes, he spoke in a shaky voice. “H-He’s alive?”

“MOVE IT!” Harry responded with a yell before disappearing from sight.

Several seconds passed, but as a surge of adrenalin began to pump through Booker’s veins, he sprang into action and jumping to his feet, he ran over to where Tom hung suspended from the ceiling. Without hesitation, he cupped his ex-lover’s battered face in his hands and leaning in close, he ignored the metallic smell of blood and whispered into Tom’s bloody ear. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

**

_**Monday May 20th 1991 (3.28 p.m.)** _

Raucous laughter filtered up from the ground floor recreation room, but Mosco barely registered the loud social banter. He stood silently in his cell, staring into the mottled mirror, his tear-filled eyes blurring the vision of his distorted reflection. There was no doubt in his mind that his _chico hermoso_ was dead and the pain in his heart was as extreme as the anguish he had felt when his mother had died. However, this time his grief was exemplified by the irrefutable knowledge that _he_ was responsible for the death. He had delivered his lover to La Viuda Negra _(The Black Widow)_ so she could exact her ultimate revenge and he now wished he had made the call to Officer Ioki sooner, instead of wasting time struggling with the torment of his inner demons. If he had, he could have saved his beloved _Chico_ from a tortuous death, but he had left it too late and now there was nothing but emptiness in his heart. He had lost the only man he had ever loved and the thought of never seeing his Tom again was too much to bear. There was nothing left for him anymore and the only way he would find peace was to make the final sacrifice and pay for his sins.

Reaching under his pillow, he pulled out his homemade shiv. His hand shook slightly as he tested the edge of the blade against the ball of his thumb and satisfied with the sharpness, he raised his eyes and stared back into the mirror. “See you soon, mi chico hermoso,” he whispered and closing his eyes, he tilted his head back and sliced the blade across his throat.

Blood gushed from the wound and dropping to his knees, he grinned manically. There was no fear, just a deep sense of calm in the knowledge that once he drew in his final breath, he would spend the rest of eternity wrapped in the arms of his _Chico_.

**

_**Wednesday May 22nd 1991 (2.21 a.m.)** _

The sound of hushed voices penetrated Booker’s dreams, pulling him back to consciousness. His dark eyes fluttered open and for a moment, he wondered where he was. But as his hearing tuned into the rhythmic beeping of a cardiac monitor, his memories returned and straightening up in his chair, he focused his gaze on Tom’s swollen face. A tight band of pain tightened his chest and wiping a shaky hand over his mouth, he attempted to block out the sickening memory of the tire iron violating Tom’s naked and bloody body. But the mental image remained stubbornly embedded in his mind and with a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet and stretched out his aching back. Thirty-six hours had passed since Tom’s arrival at St. Vincent’s Hospital and he had kept a bedside vigil as he anxiously waited for his ex-lover to wake up. During that time, a steady flow of doctors had come and gone, each muttering vague prognoses and well-worn platitudes that it was _too early_ to know what damage Tom had sustained, but he mostly ignored them. They did not know his Tommy the way he did and he had no doubt in _his_ mind that the man he still carried a torch for would make a full recovery.

Moving closer to the bed, he reached out a hand, but it hovered in midair as Tom’s voice sounded through his swollen lips. “Mosco.”

For a fraction of a second, Booker’s heart stopped beating and his blood chilled in his veins, sending a shiver of dejection through his tired body. Tom was calling for the man who had betrayed him and it was then that he realized he had no place in his ex-lover’s life. He was not even a blip on Tom’s radar and all of a sudden, he felt like an intruder. Etiquette dictated that he had no right to sit at the younger man’s bedside. That privilege remained firmly reserved for a patient’s family, friends, or partner and he did not qualify in any of those categories… not anymore. He was a nobody.

Lowering his hand, he turned and picking up his leather coat, he gave Tom one final, lingering look. “Get well soon, baby,” he whispered and bowing his head, he walked from the room.


	38. The Hand of Providence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Wednesday May 22nd 1991 (2.21 a.m.)_
> 
> _The sound of hushed voices penetrated Booker’s dreams, pulling him back to consciousness. His dark eyes fluttered open and for a moment, he wondered where he was. But as his hearing tuned into the rhythmic beeping of a cardiac monitor, his memories returned and straightening up in his chair, he focused his gaze on Tom’s swollen face. A tight band of pain tightened his chest and wiping a shaky hand over his mouth, he attempted to block out the sickening memory of the tire iron violating Tom’s naked and bloody body. But the mental image remained stubbornly embedded in his mind and with a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet and stretched out his aching back. Thirty-six hours had passed since Tom’s arrival at St. Vincent’s Hospital and he had kept a bedside vigil as he anxiously waited for his ex-lover to wake up. During that time, a steady flow of doctors had come and gone, each muttering vague prognoses and well-worn platitudes that it was too early to know what damage Tom had sustained, but he mostly ignored them. They did not know his Tommy the way he did and he had no doubt in his mind that the man he still carried a torch for would make a full recovery._
> 
> _Moving closer to the bed, he reached out a hand, but it hovered in midair as Tom’s voice sounded through his swollen lips. “Mosco.”_
> 
> _For a fraction of a second, Booker’s heart stopped beating and his blood chilled in his veins, sending a shiver of dejection through his tired body. Tom was calling for the man who had betrayed him and it was then that he realized he had no place in his ex-lover’s life. He was not even a blip on Tom’s radar and all of a sudden, he felt like an intruder. Etiquette dictated that he had no right to sit at the younger man’s bedside. That privilege remained firmly reserved for a patient’s family, friends, or partner and he did not qualify in any of those categories… not anymore. He was a nobody._
> 
> _Lowering his hand, he turned and picking up his leather coat, he gave Tom one final, lingering look. “Get well soon, baby,” he whispered and bowing his head, he walked from the room._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35938728916/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Six months later – Saturday November 30th 1991 (10.08 a.m.)**_

The hot, sweet coffee burned Booker’s tongue, but he was too impatient and agitated to let it cool. Caffeine was his friend and he had forgone his usual two cups that morning due to an unexpected phone call from his mother, begging him to come over because someone had stolen her car during the night and the police had found it stripped and torched in the early hours of the morning. He had reluctantly agreed to do so, knowing full well what he was in for and when he arrived at her house, he was not disappointed. She wailed, she moaned, she ranted about the inconvenience of looking for another vehicle, citing that _everyone_ knew that used car salesmen were the biggest con artists in the world and they would take advantage of her because she was a woman. On and on it went, her high-pitched voice grating on his nerves until he had finally had enough and with a frustrated sigh, he agreed to take her car shopping, on the proviso he preselected half a dozen vehicles to look at, rather than tramping around used car lots for hours on end on his day off. He was prepared to give up his Saturday in order to stop the incessant whining that had the same effect on his nerves as fingernails scraping down a chalkboard and his mother was appeased in the knowledge that her beloved Denny would take charge and she would not have to deal with the aggravation alone.

It was a win-win situation.

Picking up the newspaper he had bought on the way over to the café, he flicked through the pages until he came to the classified ads. He was tossing up with the idea of getting another motorcycle and rather than looking at vehicles for his mother, he began to look at what bikes were available in his price range. It did not take long for him to become completely engrossed in the choices laid out before him and he did not notice the busboy until a loud crash sounded next to his table. Jumping at the unexpected noise, hot coffee splashed over his hand, scalding his skin and swearing crossly, he turned to give the clumsy waiter’s assistant a piece of his mind, but the words caught in his throat. He stared in disbelief at the crouched figure before rising to his feet and slowly approaching the man kneeling next to the debris of broken crockery. "Tommy?" he whispered in a soft, incredulous voice. 

Tom lifted his head, his dark, startled eyes partly obscured by his long bangs and Booker immediately noticed a marked change is his former lover. Tom was much thinner than he remembered, his cheekbones appearing sharper and more clearly defined than before. His skin appeared sallow and dark smudges blackened the flesh beneath his eyes, giving him an unhealthy appearance. But what was most prominent was the tremor in his right hand that made picking up the smashed cups and plates an almost impossible task and squatting down, Booker started to help when a gruff voice sounded above him. “Damn it, Hanson! I told you to be careful. Those breakages are coming out of your pay, got it?”

Tilting his head, Tom peered up through the curtain of hair hanging over his eyes. “Yes, Mister Rogers,” he replied softly. There was a slight hesitancy in his speech and Booker raised his eyebrows as he watched his former friend grasp the tray of broken plates and scramble to his feet. 

“I have to get back to work,” Tom muttered to no one in particular, the crockery rattling on the tray as his hand shook uncontrollably and turning away, he walked towards the kitchen with a slow, halting gait.

“Tommy, wait!” Booker cried out, but Tom had already disappeared through the saloon-style doors and into the sanctuary of the café's back room, the wooden doors swinging in his wake. Jumping to his feet, he started to follow, but the manager laid a restraining hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, you can’t go back there.”

Booker’s eyes glanced briefly at the man before returning his gaze to the swinging doors. “Jesus,” he murmured.

Alf Rogers narrowed his eyes and glared suspiciously at Booker. “Do you know Tom?” he asked directly.

“I did… I mean, yeah, I do… but I haven’t seen him for a while,” Booker faltered and wiping an unsteady hand over his mouth, he turned and faced the overweight manager. “Um, it was my fault that he dropped the tray. I’d like to pay for the breakages.”

Rogers shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t care one way or the other, as long as someone pays,” he replied and taking the proffered money from Dennis' hand, he walked over to the counter and placed it in a wooden box. “He’s kinda clumsy, ‘cause of his disability,” he continued, by way of an explanation, “but he’s a good worker; always on time and never answers back.”

“Disability?” Booker asked in a shaky voice, the startling piece of information causing his heart rate to rise. “What’s wrong with him?”

A sad smile played over Rogers’ face and he tapped the side of his head knowingly. "I don't know what he was like when you knew him, but he's a little slow now." 

Booker's blood ran cold. "Slow? In what way?" he asked apprehensively.

“He was beat up or something,” Rogers informed him. “I guess he suffered some kinda neur... neuro... Dang it! I never can say that word! Some kinda brain damage."

The words echoed painfully in Booker’s ears. “Brain damage? Jesus, I had no idea he… _Jesus_.”

Once again, Rogers shrugged his hulking shoulders. “It happens,” he replied flatly. 

Reaching into his pocket, Booker pulled out his badge. “What time does he finish work?”

Rogers’ eyebrows rose towards his receding hairline and holding up his hands, he slowly backed away. “Whoa! I don’t know what Tom’s done, but I don’t want no trouble here.”

With a soft sigh, Booker replaced his badge. “He’s not in any trouble, I just want to speak to him and I wanted to reassure you that I wasn’t going to hurt him in any way.”

“Oh,” Rogers mumbled in relief. “Well, as long as you’re a cop, I s’pose it don’t matter if I give you that info. He knocks off at ten.”

“Thank you,” Booker replied quietly and walking over to his table, he drained the last of his coffee and tucking the newspaper under his arm, he exited the café.

**

_**Saturday November 30th 1991 (10.02 p.m.)** _

Now that he had found Tom, Booker ditched the idea of buying a motorcycle. He was not sure why, but he suddenly had a feeling that the timing was not right and he should concentrate on being a dutiful son and help his mother in her quest to find the perfect car. His selfless act appeared to appease the universe and in a stroke of pure luck, she had fallen in love with the first car they had looked at and their shopping trip was brief and relatively stress-free. With his mother filling out the paperwork for her new car, he wandered aimlessly around the lot before stopping in front of a blue Mustang. Memories of Tom sitting grinning behind the wheel flooded his mind and reaching out a hand, he lightly stroked the paintwork. He had no idea why, but all of a sudden, it seemed extremely important that he buy the car and without further thought, he made the unprecedented decision to trade in his battered Toyota for the Mustang. He did not know if seeing Tom had influenced his judgment or not, in fact, he was not even sure _why_ he had decided to upgrade his vehicle. But he was happy with his purchase and as he sat outside the café and waited for his ex to finish work, he fiddled with the radio tuner until he found a station he liked. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in rapid rhythm to Nirvana’s _‘Smells like Teen Spirit’_ , he stared at the café’s large front window. He could see Tom inside, talking to Alf Rogers and he hoped the manager was not tipping him off that he was waiting outside. The last thing he wanted was to scare Hanson off before he had a chance to speak to him.

Minutes later, Tom exited the café with a brown paper bag clutched in his hand. Booker watched him limp up the street and for the hundredth time that day, he wondered just how severe Tom’s injuries really were. He had abandoned his ex at the hospital long before any of the doctors were able to give a full diagnosis and he now regretted his decision to walk away before knowing the full extent of Tom's trauma. He should never have left him to face his injuries alone and he now wished he had been a better friend; he should have stayed and helped him through it instead of selfishly running out because he was jealous of Mosco.

Climbing out of the car, he stepped into the near-deserted street and slammed the door closed behind him with a resounding bang. The sound alerted Tom to his presence and the younger man stopped walking and turned in his direction. Although Booker was too far away to read Tom’s facial expression, he could tell by his stance that he was surprised to see him and he was shocked when Tom turned his back and continued limping away from him. Breaking into a jog, he followed him up the narrow street, calling out his name. “Tommy, wait up! Wait up!”

When he finally caught up to his ex-lover, he grabbed him by the arm. “Aw c’mon, Tommy, don’t be like that.”

Tom immediately pulled his arm away and hugging the brown paper bag to his chest, he stared down at the pavement. “Leave me alone,” he mumbled in the same slightly hesitant voice he had used in the diner.

Somewhat surprised by Tom’s hostility, Booker took a step backward and held up his hands. “Sorry,” he apologized softly. “I only want to talk.”

After a moment of awkward silence, Tom lifted his head and gazed at Booker with his dark, penetrating eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he stated softly.

A deep frown creased Booker’s brow. “Are you shitting me? There’s _plenty_ to talk about… Jesus, Tom, so much has happened since the last time we spoke.”

Tom’s lower lip pushed into a familiar petulant pout and immediately a ripple of desire flamed inside Booker’s lower body. But he ignored the feeling and instead, he concentrated on Tom’s faltering voice. 

“No, there’s not,” the younger man insisted quietly. “You’re not part of my life… not anymore.”

“And yet fate keeps bringing us back together,” Booker blurted out in a rush of words. When Tom did not reply, he exhaled a heavy sigh. “C’mon, Tommy, all I’m asking is an hour of your time. Let’s go get a drink, relax and talk for a while… okay?”

Lowering his gaze, Tom stared at the brown bag in his hand. “My burger will go cold,” he replied softly as if that fact was the most important thing in the world.

Although it was not an affirmative response to his request, Booker sensed victory and his lips tilted into a warm smile. “Whatever you want to eat, I’ll get it for you… my treat.”

“I want a burger,” Tom whispered, his eyes remaining fixed on the paper bag.

“Okay, a burger it is,” Booker replied cheerfully, but in truth, he felt a cold sense of foreboding crawling through his veins. Tom’s monosyllabic responses had him wondering just how bad his brain injury was. But he pushed the unsettling thought aside and concentrated on making his friend feel comfortable because he had a feeling that when they sat down and _really_ talked, it was not going to be an easy conversation.

**

_**Saturday November 30th 1991 (10.28 p.m.)** _

The car journey to Bob’s Burger Bar was uncomfortable in its silence. Tom sat with his back to Booker, staring wordlessly out of the passenger window at the empty sidewalks and flashing neon lights advertising _Girls! Girls! Girls!_ He felt disorientated and a little frightened, although he could not quite put his finger on the reason why. He knew Booker would never hurt him and yet he felt wary in his presence; he was not sure if he could trust him.

When Booker parked the car outside the diner, he unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out. He was hungry, but at Booker’s request, he had thrown out his burger from the café and he did not have enough money to buy a meal. That meant he was reliant on his ex-lover to make the order and as his stomach growled, he hoped the dark haired officer would not want to talk before eating, but if he did, he figured there was little he could do about it. He was no longer the forceful, confident man he had once been. All that remained was a shadow and he would sit quietly and submissively for the duration of their meeting, even if it meant going hungry because that was who he now was.

He was the nowhere man.


	39. From Beneath the Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Saturday November 30th 1991 (10.28 p.m.)_
> 
> _The car journey to Bob’s Burger Bar was uncomfortable in its silence. Tom sat with his back to Booker, staring wordlessly out of the passenger window at the empty sidewalks and flashing neon lights advertising Girls! Girls! Girls! He felt disorientated and a little frightened, although he could not quite put his finger on the reason why. He knew Booker would never hurt him and yet he felt wary in his presence; he was not sure if he could trust him._
> 
> _When Booker parked the car outside the diner, he unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out. He was hungry, but at Booker’s request, he had thrown out his burger from the café and he did not have enough money to buy a meal. That meant he was reliant on his ex-lover to make the order and as his stomach growled, he hoped the dark haired officer would not want to talk before eating, but if he did, he figured there was little he could do about it. He was no longer the forceful, confident man he had once been. All that remained was a shadow and he would sit quietly and submissively for the duration of their meeting, even if it meant going hungry because that was who he now was._
> 
> _He was the nowhere man._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35170022283/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Saturday November 30th 1991 (10.43 p.m.)** _

Booker took a sip of beer and silently watched Tom consume a cheeseburger with a side of fries at a painstakingly leisurely pace. Although he was itching to quiz his ex-lover about the last six months of his life, he knew he needed to exercise patience and not bombard him with questions. Tom’s demeanor was skittish, and the last thing he wanted to do was scare him off by coming on too strong. The hand of fate had brought them back together, and he would be damned if he would lose Tom again because of his impetuous nature. He would remain circumspect and allow Tom to take the lead; otherwise, their renewed friendship would be doomed before it had even begun.

After what seemed like a lifetime to Booker, Tom finally finished his meal and pushing his empty plate to one side, he wiped a trembling hand over his mouth. He sat silently with his head bowed down, his dark eyes fixed on the scratched laminate table in front of them, and Dennis felt a surge of impatience coursing through his body. Once upon a time, they had shared an intimate connection, but now they were two strangers trying to get through an uncomfortable meeting. Tom’s body was rigid, almost statue-like, except for the persistent tremor in his right hand, and Booker found it difficult not to stare. The subdued man sitting before him was a broken imitation of the spirited, often outspoken police officer he had initially fallen in love with, and it depressed him to witness the obvious decline in Tom’s mental and physical health. But he hoped his friend would accept his offer of help and maybe, with the right treatment, he could bring back to life the man he still carried a torch for, despite the volatility of their relationship. Maybe this time, he really _could_ save him from a life of pain and misery.

The uncomfortable silence continued for several long minutes and Booker soon forgot his vow to let Tom take the lead. He straightened up in his chair and inhaling a deep breath, he spoke in his usual forthright manner. “Are you under the care of a doctor?”

Tom lifted his gaze and gave Booker a blank stare. “Huh?”

Swallowing down the urge to sigh in frustration, Booker remained calm. “Are you seeing a doctor about your… _condition?”_

It appeared to take Tom several moments to comprehend the significance of Booker’s words, but when the meaning eventually sank in, his lips twitched self-consciously. “I go to the free clinic to fill my prescription,” he disclosed in a soft voice. “But that’s all.”

Booker absorbed the information before deciding to pry further. “Prescription for what?”

Tom’s left hand clamped self-consciously over his trembling right hand and bowing his head lower, he stared at the table and spoke in a barely audible voice. “I take SSRIs, you know, ‘cause of my depression and anxiety.” 

Booker started to speak, but Tom continued in a slow, faltering voice, his tone doleful, but oddly accepting. “I guess I was right all along, I’m _not_ worthy of love. Mosco used me so he could set me up. Juan Álvarez’s gang attacked me when I left prison. They beat me and…” 

He paused for a moment before lifting his damaged hand and giving a wry smile. “And now I’m like this. I’m slow, and I forget things… I’m damaged.” 

As Booker silently processed the devastating information, Tom’s mood once again became detached. “So, is that it?” he muttered in a flat, emotionless voice. “Have I answered all your questions? Can I go now?”

A painful stabbing in Booker’s heart made it difficult for him to breathe and more than anything, he wanted to wrap his ex-lover in his arms and hold him close. However, he was astute enough to know Tom would reject any offer of comfort, so instead, he decided to disclose what it was that _he_ knew. He hesitated for a moment before taking in a jagged intake of air and divulging his secret. “I was there when the cops found you at the warehouse.”

The flash of surprise in Tom’s eyes sparked a small glimmer of life in his otherwise blank expression. “You were there?” he asked, the shock evident by the quaver in his voice. “How did you—”

Although he would never have believed he was capable of saying the words aloud, Booker told Tom what he needed to hear. “Mosco _did_ love you,” he muttered, his fists curling into tight balls as he struggled with the painful truth. “He rang Harry and that’s how we knew where to find you. He saved your life.”

Tom’s dark eyes flooded with tears, but he refused to allow his emotions to run free and biting down on his lower lip, he spoke in a wavering voice. “He tried to _save_ me?”

A deep-seated jealousy burned in Booker’s soul and he desperately wanted to tell Tom that even though Mosco had eventually had a change of heart, he was still responsible for delivering him to Ana. However, when he saw the pain in Tom’s eyes, he decided not to burst his bubble and to let him hold on to the happy memories he had of his relationship with the young Hispanic. His decision was not really a selfless act; Miguel Mosco was dead and, therefore, he no longer had any influence over Hanson’s life. For Booker, it was the perfect ending to a tragic love story. His Tommy was now free to live the life he deserved, and he would do everything in his power to make that a reality.

As the satisfying thought played through his mind, he suddenly realized Tom probably did not know that Mosco had died, and a cold hand gripped at his heart. He had never enjoyed being the bearer of bad news and after lifting Tom’s spirits, he was now about to dash them in the cruelest way possible. But he knew Tom would find out eventually, and he figured it would be better coming from him, rather than some cold-hearted guard at the prison. 

Therefore, with a pounding heart, he forgot his earlier reticence and reaching out, he laid a hand over Tom’s cold fingers. “There’s something else, Tommy… something that’s gonna be kinda hard to hear.”

This time, Tom did not withdraw from the contact. Instead, he took a deep breath and stared at Booker with tear-filled eyes. “Tell me.”

Without going into explicit detail, Booker divulged what he knew about Mosco’s suicide. The emotion Tom had so bravely held inside eventually spilled from his tortured eyes and rivulets of tears streamed down his pale face, the salty droplets forever washing away a part of his old life. Mosco was dead, and no matter how indirect his role might have been, there was no getting around it; he was still responsible. It was another notch in his belt of death, alongside Amy and Doug’s and he began to wonder if he was predestined to take the lives of those he loved.

He began to wonder if he was The Reaper.

When Tom’s face crumpled in grief, and a loud sob choked from between his lips, Booker could no longer sit idly by and do nothing. Getting to his feet, he crossed to the other side of the table and squatting down, he wrapped his arms around his friend’s trembling body. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmured against Tom’s sweet-smelling hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Several pairs of curious eyes stared in their direction and immediately Booker’s protectiveness came to the fore. “C’mon,” he whispered against Tom’s ear. “Let’s get out of here.”

Tom lifted his head from the warmth of Booker’s chest, revealing a blotchy, tear-stained face and red-rimmed eyes. “Why does God keep punishing me?”

It was the first time Booker had heard Tom allude to a higher being, and his brow knitted together. “No one’s punishing you, Tom. It’s just life.”

“Is it?” Tom croaked, his wide eyes brimming with fresh tears as he desperately sought reassurance. “Is it really?”

Although Booker was not a religious man, he did wonder why it was that Tom seemed to draw the short straw in life. However, he was unwilling to reinforce his friend’s insecurities and placing a hand on Tom’s head, he lovingly ruffled his hair. “Of course,” he smiled, in what was a thinly veiled attempt to assuage his fears. “Now, can I drive you home?”

Too tired to protest, Tom rose to his feet and gave a nod of resignation. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Booker replied softly and tossing several bills onto the table, he placed a comforting arm around Tom’s shoulders and led him from the diner.

**

_**Saturday November 30th 1991 (11.09 p.m.)** _

Standing in Tom’s dank, two-room, basement apartment, Booker struggled to keep his expression neutral, but in reality, his heart was breaking. He cast his mind back to when Tom was living a life of drugs and prostitution, and he suppressed a sigh when he realized his friend’s living conditions had not improved. The furnishings were sparse and once again, the only luxury appeared to be a small television sitting on a wooden crate in the corner of the tiny living area. However, unlike Tom’s last apartment, the home was neat and clean, except for a pungent smell that permeated the damp air. Casting his eyes surreptitiously upwards, he immediately noticed several distinctive patches of black mold on the painted exterior wall and around the frame of the small, street-level window. It was a telling testament to the unsanitary state of the cramped rental, and he felt an overwhelming sense of sadness wash over him. Despite Tom’s best intentions and giving up eighteen months of his life in the hope of redemption, his circumstances had not improved in the slightest. If anything, they were worse.

Acutely aware of Booker’s failed attempt to hide his true feelings, Tom attempted to justify his meager surroundings. “I know it’s not much,” he stated softly, his lips tilting into a shy smile, “but it’s quiet… I like the quiet.”

There was so much Booker wanted to say, but for the first time in his life, he had the sensitivity and presence of mind to step back and give Tom some space. It was a delicate situation and if he voiced his opinions too assertively and too early, he risked alienating Tom altogether. Therefore, he made the decision to stay silent in the hope that he could persuade his ex-lover to meet with him again, and once their relationship was on stable footing, he could convince him to move out of the apartment and back into the protective sanctuary of his home.

With his plan now firmly in place, he looked at his watch, and his eyebrows shot up in a theatrical display of surprise. “Jesus, I didn’t realize how late it was. I should go.” 

“Okay,” Tom replied quietly, his voice once again devoid of any emotion. “It was good seeing you.”

The statement sounded like a final goodbye and an acute sadness filled Booker’s heart. Stepping forward, he placed a hand on Tom’s bony shoulder and tried to engage him with his smile. “This doesn’t have to be goodbye, Tom. Can’t I see you tomorrow?”

Tom’s eyes twitched nervously. “Why?” he muttered, the tone of his voice completely devoid of enthusiasm.

The single word reverberated in Booker’s brain, and he too started to question why he felt the need to have his ex-lover back in his life. But although he had no definitive answer, he knew he could not just walk away. There was something he could not quite put his finger on… a connection between them that he could not ignore. Fate had brought them together and even though he was perceptive enough to know it was probably a mistake, he had always been one to follow his gut instinct. Tom was a part of his life, whether he liked it or not and if he could help him emotionally or financially, he would do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

Once he had his thoughts straight in his mind, he smiled broadly and gave the answer he thought Tom would find most convincing. “I dunno, for old time’s sake?” 

Unmoved by the warmth of Booker’s spirit, Tom shrugged his shoulders apathetically. “Okay, I guess,” he replied in what was becoming a monosyllabic rhetoric.

Although his patience was beginning to wear thin, Booker managed to contain his frustration. “So, what time should I come over?”

Tom hesitated for a moment before giving his answer in a flat voice. “I finish work at one.”

“Then I’ll see you at two,” Booker replied with a tender smile, and as he gazed deep into Tom’s dark eyes, his voice softened. “It really _is_ good to see you, Tommy.”

A hint of a smile tilted the corners of Tom’s lips before quickly vanishing into the ether. “Yeah,” he replied quietly. “You too.”


	40. Secret Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: There was so much Booker wanted to say, but for the first time in his life, he had the sensitivity and presence of mind to step back and give Tom some space. It was a delicate situation and if he voiced his opinions too assertively and too early, he risked alienating Tom altogether. Therefore, he made the decision to stay silent in the hope that he could persuade his ex-lover to meet with him again, and once their relationship was on stable footing, he could convince him to move out of the apartment and back into the protective sanctuary of his home._
> 
> _With his plan now firmly in place, he looked at his watch, and his eyebrows shot up in a theatrical display of surprise. “Jesus, I didn’t realize how late it was. I should go.”_
> 
> _“Okay,” Tom replied quietly, his voice once again devoid of any emotion. “It was good seeing you.”_
> 
> _The statement sounded like a final goodbye and an acute sadness filled Booker’s heart. Stepping forward, he placed a hand on Tom’s bony shoulder and tried to engage him with his smile. “This doesn’t have to be goodbye, Tom. Can’t I see you tomorrow?”_
> 
> _Tom’s eyes twitched nervously. “Why?” he muttered, the tone of his voice completely devoid of enthusiasm._
> 
> _The single word reverberated in Booker’s brain, and he too started to question why he felt the need to have his ex-lover back in his life. But although he had no definitive answer, he knew he could not just walk away. There was something he could not quite put his finger on… a connection between them that he could not ignore. Fate had brought them together and even though he was perceptive enough to know it was probably a mistake, he had always been one to follow his gut instinct. Tom was a part of his life, whether he liked it or not and if he could help him emotionally or financially, he would do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked._
> 
> _Once he had his thoughts straight in his mind, he smiled broadly and gave the answer he thought Tom would find most convincing. “I dunno, for old time’s sake?”_
> 
> _Unmoved by the warmth of Booker’s spirit, Tom shrugged his shoulders apathetically. “Okay, I guess,” he replied in what was becoming a monosyllabic rhetoric._
> 
> _Although his patience was beginning to wear thin, Booker managed to contain his frustration. “So, what time should I come over?”_
> 
> _Tom hesitated for a moment before giving his answer in a flat voice. “I finish work at one.”_
> 
> _“Then I’ll see you at two,” Booker replied with a tender smile, and as he gazed deep into Tom’s dark eyes, his voice softened. “It really is good to see you, Tommy.”_
> 
> _A hint of a smile tilted the corners of Tom’s lips before quickly vanishing into the ether. “Yeah,” he replied quietly. “You too.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35938728676/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Sunday November 31st 1991 (1.52 p.m.)** _

Not wanting to appear too eager, Booker sat in his car for a full half hour listening to music in the hope that it would calm his nerves. At just after ten-to-two, he climbed out of his Mustang, crossed the street and descended the dark, narrow stairway that led to Tom’s basement apartment. Nervous tension stimulated his sweat glands, slicking his palms with unwanted perspiration, and he anxiously rubbed his hands on the seat of his jeans. He desperately wanted to prove to Tom that he was there for him, in whatever capacity he needed him, but he was also worried about smothering him in his usual overprotective way. Despite the dramatic change in his ex-lover’s personality, he still remembered how private and single-minded Tom could be. The last thing he wanted to do was overstep the boundaries of their friendship, especially knowing how volatile their relationship had been in the past. However, even though he knew he needed to tread warily, he also recognized that there was no retreat. Whether he liked it or not, he had entangled himself in what he privately thought of as the alluring web of Tom Hanson. When he had arrived home the night before, he had attempted to put his ex out of his mind, but he had been unsuccessful. He had spent a fitful night indulging in his fantasies, with visions of Tom as his lover, and he had stroked himself to orgasm several times during the long, dark hours. When the soft dawn light eventually filtered in through the chink in his curtains, he had crawled tired and unfulfilled from his bed. After brewing a pot of coffee, he had sat in his living room and stared blankly at the television, unable to concentrate on the early morning news as it unfolded on his screen. He had passed the time drinking cup after cup of the strong, sweet java, and anxiously checking the clock. The hours had ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace, but eventually, the clock struck one. It was the moment he had been waiting for and sprinting to his car, he had driven to South Central L.A. so he could finally be with the man who rocked his world.

However, as he stood on Tom’s threshold, he quickly realized the coffee had been a mistake. He was jittery and overstimulated, and he wished he had gone for a jog instead of overindulging on what was essentially a drug. But it was too late, what was done was done, and all he could do was hope that he did not make a complete jerk of himself because he felt so wired.

Taking a deep breath, he endeavored to steady his nerves, and once he was satisfied that he had his anxiety under control, he rapped his knuckles on the chipped, wooden door.

Several interminably long seconds passed before the screech of a bolt drawing back sounded in the quiet corridor. When the door finally opened, Booker exhaled the breath he had not realized he had been holding and smiled broadly. “Hey.”

A shy smile played over Tom’s lips and lowering his eyes, he stepped back from the door. “Come in,” he invited softly.

In an attempt to hide his caffeine-induced tremors, Booker shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and continued to grin like a lunatic. “Um, I was hoping you might want to go out.”

“Out?” Tom parroted quietly, his dark eyes filling with uncertainty. “Out where?”

Booker’s smile remained plastered on his face. “How ‘bout the coast? We could grab a bite to eat and, well, you know, just talk.”

Tom narrowed his eyes and tilting his head on one side, he studied Booker’s tense features. “Dennis, are you okay?”

The absurdity of Tom asking him if _he_ was the one who was okay knocked some much-needed sense into Booker, and blowing out his cheeks, he exhaled heavily. Despite his best efforts to make Tom feel comfortable, he was behaving like an ass and doing the exact opposite. If he did not calm himself down, he risked scaring Tom away.

A smile returned to his lips, but this time, it was genuine. “Sorry,” he apologized with an embarrassed chuckle. “I’m a little over caffeinated. You know how it is.”

A familiar cheeky grin graced Tom’s beautiful features, and he held out his damaged right hand. “Tell me about it.”

It was a lame joke and Booker struggled to keep the pain out of his eyes. But he quickly recovered his wits, and he managed a sincere laugh. “Yeah, it’s a bitch.”

Tom’s shoulders visibly relaxed. The use of humor had helped them to confront the elephant in the room, and he immediately felt less anxious. Their relationship was balancing precariously on a metaphorical precipice, and any wrong move could see one or both of them plummeting to a point of no return. Since his beating, it often took him a while to analyze a situation, but he could read Dennis like a book and he was well aware that his friend was walking on eggshells to protect him. However, although grateful for his concern, he wanted a friendship based on trust and honesty. He had no one in his life; his mother had disowned him, and all his friends had fallen by the wayside. But it was early days and even though he felt self-conscious around Booker, he hoped the more time he spent with him, the easier their conversations would become. He had not gone looking for friendship, but now that it was on offer, he realized how much he missed the company of others. Life had not been easy since his attack; he had become reclusive because he no longer trusted people. But Booker was different because deep in his heart, he knew he could trust him, despite their previous problems. Dennis was a good man, even if he was somewhat hotheaded, and he would never intentionally hurt him… at least Tom hoped not.

Pleased that Booker had accepted his joke in the manner he had intended, Tom made his decision. Although he mostly shied away from crowds, he was willing to make an exception because he felt safe with Booker by his side. He felt he owed it to his ex-lover to at least make an effort and not automatically give in to the fears that kept him awake at night. It was a small step, but a step nonetheless, and a feeling of contentment warmed his heart. For the first time since leaving prison, he could honestly say that he felt happy and that in itself was a huge achievement.

Grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door, he flicked the deadlock and pocketed his keys. “So, I guess coffee is off the menu,” he grinned shyly.

Booker groaned theatrically. “I never want to see another cup again.”

“Yeah, right,” Tom shot back with a chuckle, “I remember at The Chapel, you…” 

His voice faded and shoving his hands into his pockets, he lowered his eyes and hunched his shoulders protectively inward. “But I guess that was a long time ago.”

Sensing that Tom was withdrawing back into his defensive shell, Booker attempted to lighten the mood again. “Yeah, it was. But I’m still a pig when it comes to coffee. You’d think I’d learn my lesson.”

Booker had a knack for turning things around, and Tom smiled gratefully. He did not want to discuss that part of his past, not even with Dennis. A lot had happened since he was an officer at Jump Street, and he preferred not to think about the life he had thrown away. He still thought about Doug on a daily basis, but he preferred to remember their friendship, rather than their working relationship. The memories of Jump Street were just too painful, and so he had relegated them to the deepest recesses of his mind because that was the only way he could get through each day. It was a coping mechanism and without it, he was certain he would lose his mind.

Stepping out into the corridor, he slammed the door closed and gave Booker a half smile. “Let’s go.”

**

_**Sunday November 31st 1991 (4.52 p.m.)** _

As the sun began its descent towards the horizon, Tom absently scooped up a handful of sand. Gazing wistfully at the white-capped waves crashing into shore, he allowed the tiny granules to sift therapeutically through the gaps between his fingers. "I don't remember you being at the hospital," he stated quietly.

After enjoying a late lunch overlooking the Pacific Ocean, the two men had taken a walk along the beach. When the temperature dropped, they had found a secluded spot to watch the sunset and continue their often awkward, but necessary conversation. They had discussed Mosco, and Booker had shamefacedly admitted to the dozens of one-night stands that had helped fill his lonely nights and alleviate his anger. As the afternoon wore on, they found themselves relaxing and disclosing more about what they had endured, and the conversation soon turned to Tom’s rehabilitation. But when Booker inadvertently revealed he had been at St. Vincent’s Hospital, he saw Tom's startled expression and he realized his mistake. With a sigh, he wrapped his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees, he stared dejectedly at the ocean and exhaled heavily.

“That’s ‘cause I’m an asshole,” he responded gloomily. When Tom turned his head and raised a questioning eyebrow, he offered his feeble explanation. “I was there… at the beginning. But when you were coming to, you mumbled Mosco’s name and…” 

His voice trailed off and he emitted a regretful sigh. “I was consumed with jealousy and so I left. I’m sorry.”

Squinting against the sun’s fading rays, Tom studied his friend’s face. There was something he needed to ask Booker, something that he needed to get out into the open before he invested too much energy into their friendship. Ordinarily, he would have shied away from being so outspoken; he preferred to hang in the shadows and keep his thoughts to himself. However, his interaction with Booker had emboldened him, and raking an unsteady hand through his hair, he spoke his mind. “Are you still attracted to me?” 

It was not the question Booker had expected Tom to ask and his body froze in panic. But he decided to avoid further embarrassment by answering the question with another question. “Why?” 

A small smile played over Tom’s lips. “Because I’ve seen you watching me, and you get this faraway look in your eyes.” 

Heat radiated in Booker’s groin and his cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink. “What can I say?” he mumbled softly. “You're nice to look at.”

It was Tom’s turn to blush and ducking his head, he bit down on his lower lip before confessing in a whisper, “So are you.”

A jolt of nervous excitement awakened Booker’s desires and he started to speak, but Tom cut him off in a rush of words. “But I can’t give you what you want.”

Not one to give up at the first rejection, Booker grasped hold of Tom’s hand and tightly squeezed his trembling fingers. “I’m not saying we jump straight into bed together. It’s obvious we both have trust issues, but, Tommy, this is our chance to put the past behind us and make everything right. I never stopped loving you, even when I resented you. Can’t we start over? We can take it slow, but—”

"You know what Álvarez’s gang did to me, right?" Tom interrupted in a raspy voice, his hands balling into tight fists as he struggled to control the emotion swelling from within. “They rammed a tire iron—”

“STOP!” Booker yelled, and scrambling to his feet, he started to pace up and down in front of Tom, his hands raking through his hair in a textbook display of agitation. “I know what they did! I see it every fucking night when I close my eyes!”

Rising to his feet, Tom calmly wiped the sand from the seat of his jeans. “Then you know why I can’t be with you in the way you want.”

Booker stopped pacing and narrowing his gaze, he stared directly into Tom’s dark eyes. “No, I don’t,” he replied with a stubborn pout. “Explain it to me.”

"BECAUSE I'M FUCKING IMPOTENT!" Tom screamed into Booker’s startled face, the humiliation of his condition evident by the twisted contortion of his beautiful features. “IS THAT SELF EXPLANATORY ENOUGH FOR YOU?”

At that precise moment, when he gazed into Tom’s anguished eyes, Booker knew he had made a monumental mistake. Instead of heeding his own advice and letting their friendship progress at a slow pace, he had felt so comfortable talking to Tom, he had automatically slipped back into bad habits. He had selfishly pushed and pushed until his friend had snapped, and now he found himself witnessing the unpleasant consequences of his actions.

Reaching out, he attempted to pull Tom into his arms, but his ex-lover lurched backward and wrapped his arms protectively around his frail body. “I want to go home.”

“Tommy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I SAID I WANT TO GO HOME!” Tom screeched, his wild, frightened eyes scouring the beach in panic.

Alarmed by Tom’s sudden shift in temperament, Booker held up his hands in a gesture of peace, and slowly backed away. “Okay, baby, okay,” he murmured in a placating tone. “I’ll take you home.”

Desperate to get back to the sanctuary of his apartment, Tom turned and shuffled up the beach, his apraxic gait making it difficult for him to walk through the soft sand. He stumbled several times, barely keeping his balance, but Booker did not intervene. Instead, he followed several steps behind with his eyes downcast, unwilling to witness the struggle before him because it only reinforced what he had so desperately tried to ignore.

Tom really was damaged.


	41. What Are Friends For?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Squinting against the sun’s fading rays, Tom studied his friend’s face. There was something he needed to ask Booker, something that he needed to get out into the open before he invested too much energy into their friendship. Ordinarily, he would have shied away from being so outspoken; he preferred to hang in the shadows and keep his thoughts to himself. However, his interaction with Booker had emboldened him, and raking an unsteady hand through his hair, he spoke his mind. “Are you still attracted to me?”_
> 
> _It was not the question Booker had expected Tom to ask and his body froze in panic. But he decided to avoid further embarrassment by answering the question with another question. “Why?”_
> 
> _A small smile played over Tom’s lips. “Because I’ve seen you watching me, and you get this faraway look in your eyes.”_
> 
> _Heat radiated in Booker’s groin and his cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink. “What can I say?” he mumbled softly. “You're nice to look at.”_
> 
> _It was Tom’s turn to blush and ducking his head, he bit down on his lower lip before confessing in a whisper, “So are you.”_
> 
> _A jolt of nervous excitement awakened Booker’s desires and he started to speak, but Tom cut him off in a rush of words. “But I can’t give you what you want.”_
> 
> _Not one to give up at the first rejection, Booker grasped hold of Tom’s hand and tightly squeezed his trembling fingers. “I’m not saying we jump straight into bed together. It’s obvious we both have trust issues, but, Tommy, this is our chance to put the past behind us and make everything right. I never stopped loving you, even when I resented you. Can’t we start over? We can take it slow, but—”_
> 
> _"You know what Álvarez’s gang did to me, right?" Tom interrupted in a raspy voice, his hands balling into tight fists as he struggled to control the emotion swelling from within. “They rammed a tire iron—”_
> 
> _“STOP!” Booker yelled, and scrambling to his feet, he started to pace up and down in front of Tom, his hands raking through his hair in a textbook display of agitation. “I know what they did! I see it every fucking night when I close my eyes!”_
> 
> _Rising to his feet, Tom calmly wiped the sand from the seat of his jeans. “Then you know why I can’t be with you in the way you want.”_
> 
> _Booker stopped pacing and narrowing his gaze, he stared directly into Tom’s dark eyes. “No, I don’t,” he replied with a stubborn pout. “Explain it to me.”_
> 
> _"BECAUSE I'M FUCKING IMPOTENT!" Tom screamed into Booker’s startled face, the humiliation of his condition evident by the twisted contortion of his beautiful features. “IS THAT SELF EXPLANATORY ENOUGH FOR YOU?”_
> 
> _At that precise moment, when he gazed into Tom’s anguished eyes, Booker knew he had made a monumental mistake. Instead of heeding his own advice and letting their friendship progress at a slow pace, he had felt so comfortable talking to Tom, he had automatically slipped back into bad habits. He had selfishly pushed and pushed until his friend had snapped, and now he found himself witnessing the unpleasant consequences of his actions._
> 
> _Reaching out, he attempted to pull Tom into his arms, but his ex-lover lurched backward and wrapped his arms protectively around his frail body. “I want to go home.”_
> 
> _“Tommy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”_
> 
> _“I SAID I WANT TO GO HOME!” Tom screeched, his wild, frightened eyes scouring the beach in panic._
> 
> _Alarmed by Tom’s sudden shift in temperament, Booker held up his hands in a gesture of peace, and slowly backed away. “Okay, baby, okay,” he murmured in a placating tone. “I’ll take you home.”_
> 
> _Desperate to get back to the sanctuary of his apartment, Tom turned and shuffled up the beach, his apraxic gait making it difficult for him to walk through the soft sand. He stumbled several times, barely keeping his balance, but Booker did not intervene. Instead, he followed several steps behind with his eyes downcast, unwilling to witness the struggle before him because it only reinforced what he had so desperately tried to ignore._
> 
> _Tom really was damaged._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35140382744/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday December 4th 1991 (8.42 p.m.)** _

After much thought, Booker had made the difficult decision to lie low and give Tom some space. He deeply regretted the clumsy way he had handled their meeting, and for the umpteenth time since that fateful day, he cursed his impetuous nature. However, after spending three sleepless nights analyzing in minute detail every mistake he had made, he had come to the conclusion that it would be sensible to leave Tom alone, at least for the interim. His infatuation blinded him to what it was Tom really needed; which was support, guidance and friendship, and _not_ a full-blown love affair. There was no denying the obvious; Tom was, without any doubt, emotionally and physically scarred and he knew it would be a very long time before his ex-lover was stable enough to enter into a relationship that was anything more than a friendship. However, he did hope that Tom would, at the very least, accept the hand of friendship and allow him to help in any way he could.

Therefore, having finally straightened everything out in his head, he was more than a little surprised to find Tom sitting crouched outside his door when he arrived home from work. It was immediately apparent from his appearance that something was amiss and sprinting down the hallway, he dropped to his knees beside his friend. “Tommy, what is it? What’s wrong?”

When Tom lifted his head, Booker was shocked to see how unwell he looked. Dark shadows ringed his dull, lifeless eyes, the black smudges emphasizing his apparent poor health. His hair clung in damp curls around his pallid, drawn face and his perspiration-soaked sweatshirt adhered to his slender frame. It was obvious he was in need of medical attention and Booker wrapped a supporting arm around his waist and helped him to his feet.

“Th-They sacked me,” Tom stammered, his frail body shaking uncontrollably as he desperately clutched at Booker’s arm. “I k-kept dr-dropping the tr-tray, and th-they said I was—”

“Let’s get you inside,” Booker soothed and sustaining Tom’s weight with one arm, he quickly opened the door, “you need to go to the hospital.”

Despite his frail appearance, Tom managed to pull away from Booker’s hold and leaning against the wall for support, he wrapped his arms protectively around his body and shook his head violently back and forth. “I d-don’t wa-wanna go t-to the h-hospital,” he protested.

“Tom—”

“N-NO!” Tom cried, his increasing hysteria becoming more apparent with each passing second. “I j-just need s-some-wh-where to s-stay! P-Please, D-Dennis, don’t s-send me away!”

Booker took Tom by the arm and leading him into his apartment, he closed the door. “If I’m to help you, you have to be honest with me. What’s going on?”

Tom’s eyes flitted nervously around the room before his gaze settled on the floor. “I st-stopped my m-medication,” he disclosed in a defensive tone.

With a frustrated sigh, Booker raked his hands through his hair. “Why would you—”

“BECAUSE I JUST WA-WANNA BE N-NORMAL!” Tom screamed, his dark eyes flashing wildly. “I H-HATE BEING L-LIKE THIS! I FUCKING H-HATE IT!”

Forcing down another sigh, Booker inhaled deeply and remained calm. “Okay, I get that,” he placated softly. “But, Tommy, you can’t just come off anti-anxiety medication cold turkey. There are side effects, and you’re exhibiting every single one of them.”

Without warning, Tom’s face crumpled and he burst into tears. “S-So w-what am I su-supposed to d-do? I’m fu-fucking useless _on_ m-medication and I’m fu-fucking useless _off_ it.”

The sight was so pathetic, Booker felt a physical pain stab at his heart and taking Tom by the hand, he escorted him over to the couch and sat him down. Taking a seat on the coffee table opposite, he laid his hands on Tom’s trembling knees and spoke in a quiet but authoritative voice. “First, you take a warm shower and put on a change of clothes. Second, I’ll go to your apartment and get your medication.”

When Tom started to argue, Booker held up his hand. “This is non-negotiable,” he lectured in a no-nonsense tone. “If you want my help, we do it my way.”

Flopping back against the couch cushions, Tom folded his arms across his chest in a willful show of protestation and pushed his lower lip out into a fractious pout. “And if I r-refuse?” he asked in a cold voice.

Booker gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “Then you’re on your own.”

Tom chewed anxiously on his lower lip as his legs jiggled restlessly. He knew he had no choice, he was in a bad way and with no job and no prospects, he would find himself homeless within the week. 

Overcome by a sudden onset of weariness, his lower lip started to tremble. “Okay,” he sniffed in defeat, his glassy eyes shimmering with fresh tears. “I’ll do wh-whatever you w-want.”

Although pleased that Tom had agreed to his terms, Booker did not smile. Instead, he acknowledged his friend’s statement with a barely perceivable nod of his head and getting to his feet, he held out his hand. “Keys.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Tom reached in his jean’s pocket with shaky fingers and pulling out a single key tied to a frayed piece of string, he handed it over to Booker. 

“There are towels in the bathroom and sweats in the bottom drawer of my bureau,” Booker continued in a calm voice. “Is there anything else you want me to grab from your apartment?”

Tom’s face flushed crimson. He owned very little; just a few articles of clothing and a small television set that the building manager had given to him in exchange for the occasional blowjob. But that was his dirty little secret and one he would never divulge to Booker. 

_Needs must when the devil drives._ Once a whore, always a whore.

With a slight shake of his head, he continued to stare at the floor as he struggled to control his twitching limbs. “J-Just my clothes,” he stated in a flat voice. “My m-meds are n-next to m-my bed.”

It was extremely distressing for Booker to see Tom so defeated, and he desperately wanted to gather him into his arms and kiss away his tears. But he was determined not to make the same mistake twice and so he remained cool and composed. “Okay, I’ll be back in an hour.”

As he started to leave, cold fingers grasped at his arm and maintaining his equanimity, he turned around and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Is there something else?”

Somewhat taken aback by Booker’s aloofness, Tom withdrew his trembling hand and clamped it between his legs. “No,” he muttered glumly, “I just wa-wanted to say th-thanks, that’s all.”

Booker returned a strained smile. “What are friends for?”

**

_**Wednesday December 4th 1991 (9.28 p.m.)** _

As he stood inside Tom’s dank and musty apartment, Booker remembered a long forgotten sermon from Sunday School; _One sin leads to another, and iniquity begins to define our lives._ It certainly appeared to be true in Tom’s case and even though he had sought redemption by sacrificing eighteen months of his life, the emotional and physical scars would forever remind him of the sins of his past. It seemed unjust, but it was the truth; Tom would never have the luxury of closing the lid on his past and just forgetting. His memories would haunt him forever.

With sagging shoulders, Booker walked over to the single bed in the corner of the room. Three vials of medication stood on a rickety bedside table and picking them up one by one, he studied the labels. On the drive over to the apartment, he had thought long and hard about the best way to help Tom and foremost in his mind was getting him to see a doctor. Although he understood why his friend was taking medication, he was worried about the side effects, and it seemed negligent for a clinic to keep filling his prescription without ever giving him a basic physical exam. He was starting to wonder if Tom was, in fact, _over_ medicated, and perhaps that was part of the problem. However, without a doctor’s exam, he could not say for certain. All he could do was hope that Tom would agree to see a physician and submit to a thorough examination.

The sound of footsteps pulled him from his reverie and turning around, he saw a man standing in the open doorway. He started to speak, but the man interrupted him. “Where’s Tom?”

With his suspicions aroused, Booker eyed the man up and down. He appeared to be in his forties, around six foot four, and his body was fit and muscular, but showing the beginnings of a paunch. His hair was styled in a military buzz cut, giving Booker the impression that he was an ex-serviceman, and he cut a formidable figure in his dark gray chinos and tight, long-sleeved tee. The man gave off an aura of power and dominance, and a shiver of foreboding ran down Booker’s spine. If he knew Tom, in all likelihood, he had some control over him and that did not sit well with Booker. It did not sit well at all.

Taking a step forward, he maintained a neutral expression. “Who wants to know?”

The man sneered and a low, mocking laugh rumbled in his chest. “No need to ask who _you_ are. By that possessive look in your eyes, I’d have to take an educated guess and say _you’re_ the ex-boyfriend.”

Booker found it extremely disconcerting that the man seemed to know so much about him, but he kept his uneasiness to himself. “And you are?” he asked politely.

Swiping his tongue over his perfectly even teeth, the man’s eyes glinted with malice. “The name’s McLeod, I’m the building supervisor and I wanna know where Tom is ‘cause I’ve got an itch that needs scratchin’, if you know what I mean.”

It took a second for the meaning of McLeod’s words to register in Booker’s mind, but once they did, a deep-seated fury rose from the pit of his stomach. His hands balled into tight fists as the urge to smack the smirk off the smiling face in front of him became insurmountable and narrowing his eyes, he glared angrily at McLeod. “You’d better walk away, you sonofabitch,” he growled. “Tommy doesn’t live here anymore.”

McLeod tilted his head on one side and leered at Booker in amusement. “Is that right? Damn, I’m really gonna miss that pretty little mouth wrapped around my—”

With a primordial yell, Booker launched himself at his antagonist, knocking him to the ground. Even though McLeod outweighed him by at least twenty pounds, his momentary insanity imbued him with an added strength and he managed to land several vicious punches before two meaty fists picked him up and threw him across the room. He crashed through the small coffee table, the force of the impact knocking the air out of him with a loud _oomph_. Pain immediately flared in his lower back, but it did not deter him and staggering to his feet, he defiantly stood his ground. “Wanna go again, asshole?” he hissed through bloody lips.

Alex McLeod swiped the back of his hand across his bloody nose. “And get charged with assaulting a cop? No thanks. Give Tom my love, I’m sure gonna miss him.”

For the briefest of moments, Booker considered attacking McLeod for a second time, but for once, common sense prevailed and instead, he shot the older man a stony look. “Go to hell.”

“Already been there,” McLeod countered with a growl, his piercing blue eyes narrowing into slits. “So if you’re looking for revenge, _buddy boy_ , just remember, I got very little to lose… much like your precious _Tommy_.”

Taking a menacing step forward, Booker glared at McLeod. “Is that a threat? ‘Cause if you come anywhere _near_ Tom, I swear I’ll make it my mission to see you really _do_ end up in hell.”

An amused laugh sputtered from between McLeod’s lips. “You and whose army, pretty boy?”

Booker’s lips pulled back into a manic grin, revealing his blood stained teeth. “ _Never_ underestimate the power of Los Angeles’ finest,” he snarled. “I’ll put a tail on your ass and if you even fart in public, I’ll have you arrested. Got it?”

McLeod’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, but he eventually came to the conclusion that Tom was not worth the hassle and with a nod of his head, he turned on his heel and sauntered out the door.


	42. Heart in a Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: The sound of footsteps pulled him from his reverie and turning around, he saw a man standing in the open doorway. He started to speak, but the man interrupted him. “Where’s Tom?”_
> 
> _With his suspicions aroused, Booker eyed the man up and down. He appeared to be in his forties, around six foot four, and his body was fit and muscular, but showing the beginnings of a paunch. His hair was styled in a military buzz cut, giving Booker the impression that he was an ex-serviceman, and he cut a formidable figure in his dark gray chinos and tight, long-sleeved tee. The man gave off an aura of power and dominance, and a shiver of foreboding ran down Booker’s spine. If he knew Tom, in all likelihood, he had some control over him and that did not sit well with Booker. It did not sit well at all._
> 
> _Taking a step forward, he maintained a neutral expression. “Who wants to know?”_
> 
> _The man sneered and a low, mocking laugh rumbled in his chest. “No need to ask who you are. By that possessive look in your eyes, I’d have to take an educated guess and say you’re the ex-boyfriend.”_
> 
> _Booker found it extremely disconcerting that the man seemed to know so much about him, but he kept his uneasiness to himself. “And you are?” he asked politely._
> 
> _Swiping his tongue over his perfectly even teeth, the man’s eyes glinted with malice. “The name’s McLeod, I’m the building supervisor and I wanna know where Tom is ‘cause I’ve got an itch that needs scratchin’, if you know what I mean.”_
> 
> _It took a second for the meaning of McLeod’s words to register in Booker’s mind, but once they did, a deep-seated fury rose from the pit of his stomach. His hands balled into tight fists as the urge to smack the smirk off the smiling face in front of him became insurmountable and narrowing his eyes, he glared angrily at McLeod. “You’d better walk away, you sonofabitch,” he growled. “Tommy doesn’t live here anymore.”_
> 
> _McLeod tilted his head on one side and leered at Booker in amusement. “Is that right? Damn, I’m really gonna miss that pretty little mouth wrapped around my—”_
> 
> _With a primordial yell, Booker launched himself at his antagonist, knocking him to the ground. Even though McLeod outweighed him by at least twenty pounds, his momentary insanity imbued him with an added strength and he managed to land several vicious punches before two meaty fists picked him up and threw him across the room. He crashed through the small coffee table, the force of the impact knocking the air out of him with a loud oomph. Pain immediately flared in his lower back, but it did not deter him and staggering to his feet, he defiantly stood his ground. “Wanna go again, asshole?” he hissed through bloody lips._
> 
> _Alex McLeod swiped the back of his hand across his bloody nose. “And get charged for assaulting a cop? No thanks. Give Tom my love, I’m sure gonna miss him.”_
> 
> _For the briefest of moments, Booker considered attacking McLeod for a second time, but for once, common sense prevailed and instead, he shot the older man a stony look. “Go to hell.”_
> 
> _“Already been there,” McLeod countered with a growl, his piercing blue eyes narrowing into slits. “So if you’re looking for revenge, buddy boy, just remember, I got very little to lose… much like your precious Tommy.”_
> 
> _Taking a menacing step forward, Booker glared at McLeod. “Is that a threat? ‘Cause if you come anywhere near Tom, I swear I’ll make it my mission to see you really do end up in hell.”_
> 
> _An amused laugh sputtered from between McLeod’s lips. “You and whose army, pretty boy?”_
> 
> _Booker’s lips pulled back into a manic grin, revealing his blood stained teeth. “Never underestimate the power of Los Angeles’ finest,” he snarled. “I’ll put a tail on your ass and if you even fart in public, I’ll have you arrested. Got it?”_
> 
> _McLeod’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, but he eventually came to the conclusion that Tom was not worth the hassle and with a nod of his head, he turned on his heel and sauntered out the door._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35938728516/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday December 4th 1991 (9.51 p.m.)** _

Arriving back at his apartment, Booker found Tom curled on the couch, his gaunt face a mask of misery. Dressed in ill-fitting sweats, the borrowed clothing swamped his slender frame, giving him the appearance of someone much younger than his twenty-five years. There was a bucket next to the couch that smelled faintly of vomit and Booker averted his eyes, unable to stomach the sight of the foul smelling liquid. His lower body ached, and all he wanted to do was take a hot shower and go to bed. For the first time since Tom’s arrival, he was aware of the enormity of what he was taking on. He could say goodbye to his carefree bachelor life, he was now responsible for a sick and emotionally damaged man, a man he was still in love with, which only added to the complicated situation. Life as he knew it would never be the same.

Tom lifted his head, and his expression immediately registered surprise. “What happened to your face?” he asked, his body struggling to a sitting position.

In no mood to recount his beating, Booker threw the vials of medication across the room, hitting Tom in the chest. “Take your meds,” he instructed in a weary voice and discarding to the floor the small bag of clothing he was carrying, he walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer.

The uncomfortable silence that followed had Tom fidgeting self-consciously in his seat. "You're angry," he finally muttered into his chest.

It was a statement, not a question and Booker took a large swig of his beer before responding in a strained voice. "I met someone at your apartment, a man named McLeod. Ring any bells?" 

Tom's eyes twitched nervously and clenching his fists, he lowered his gaze to the floor. “He’s the building super, he—"

“YOU SUCKED HIS FUCKING COCK!” Booker exploded, the force of his words sending spittle flying from his lips. “IS THAT HOW YOU PAID YOUR RENT? IS IT? IS _IT?”_

Tears filled Tom’s haunted eyes, and his face crumpled. “I w-was lonely,” he choked, “and he g-gave me things… th-things I couldn’t afford.”

The word _whore_ hovered on the tip of Booker’s tongue, but he quickly swallowed it down. “I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered and draining his beer, he slammed the empty bottle down onto the kitchen counter. “Take your medication. There are blankets in the closet. I’m going to bed.”

“Dennis, please!” Tom implored, his voice rising with emotion. But the only answer he received was the wall-shaking slam of the bedroom door.

**

_**Thursday December 5th 1991 (2.36 a.m.)** _

The dull ache in his lower back woke Booker from a restless sleep and gingerly rolling over in bed, he gazed down at the strip of light flickering beneath his bedroom door. Muffled voices floated through the closed door and glancing at the clock on his nightstand, he wondered why Tom was watching TV at such an ungodly hour. A pang of guilt colored his face and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up with a groan. Pain flared in his back, but he ignored it and struggling to his feet, he shuffled across the room and silently opened the door.

Tom was still on the couch, the light from the television illuminating his pale, tear-stained face. He lay on his side, his body pulled into the fetal position with his hands tucked between his thighs and his lackluster eyes staring blankly at the flickering screen. He was the very picture of wretchedness; a lost soul whose life was a litany of physical pain and psychological suffering. 

He was broken.

As Booker’s eyes traveled down the lifeless body, his gaze settled on his ex-lover’s bare feet, and the memory of him suspended from a pulley in the warehouse flashed into his mind. He stared at Tom’s crooked toes; each one of them broken in the vicious assault six months before and his heart filled with empathy. Too often throughout their tumultuous relationship, he had blamed Tom for not being the type of man he wanted him to be, but in reality, it was little wonder that his friend was so screwed up. Tom’s life had steadily spiraled out of control when he began taking _illicit_ drugs, and it now appeared he would spend the rest of his life reliant on _prescription_ drugs. It was a sequence of reciprocal cause and effect, the proverbial _vicious cycle_ and Booker could only hope that in time, his friend would once again find happiness.

Rubbing a hand over his bleary eyes, he emitted a heavy-hearted sigh. His feelings for Tom were so complicated; on the one hand, he was totally and completely in love with him and on the other, he found it difficult to accept him for who he was. He had overreacted and he needed to accept that it was not his place to mold Tom into his ideal of the perfect man. If he wanted their relationship to flourish, he needed to love him regardless of his indiscretions and move forward. The Tom Hanson he had initially fallen in love with was now just a romantic fantasy and the man lying on his couch was the harsh reality. He needed to forget the dream and focus on helping his friend because otherwise, their relationship would once again, end in tears.

A painful twinge in his lower back had him gasping for air, and he jerked involuntarily. Two dark brown eyes, hooded by heavy lids turned in his direction and, despite his mental pep talk, his heart immediately fluttered with longing. But he quickly pushed the feeling aside and stepping into the room, he managed a watery smile. “Hey.”

Tom sat up and pulling a cushion onto his lap, he hugged it protectively against his chest. “You were staring at me,” he mumbled self-consciously.

Heat flamed Booker’s cheeks and moving slowly forward, he eased himself into a chair. “Yeah, sorry. I got lost in my thoughts.”

“You’re hurt,” Tom stated, his laconic responses beginning to grate on Booker’s nerves. “ _He_ hurt you.”

“Tom,” Booker sighed and struggling to his feet, he moved over to the couch and sat down. “I don’t want to talk about _him_ , I want to know if _you’re_ okay.”

Lowering his eyes to the floor, Tom’s tongue flicked nervously over his chapped lips. “I took my meds.”

The urge to grab Tom by the shoulders and shake the words out of him had Booker’s hands curling into frustrated fists, but he relaxed his muscles and attempted to remain composed. “And?” he asked softly, his dark eyes twinkling with concern.

A tiny smile twitched at the edges of Tom’s lips. “I feel… _calmer_.”

Booker’s gaze turned to the television before settling back on Tom’s face. “Are you having trouble sleeping?” he probed gently.

Tom’s shoulders sagged, and he exhaled heavily. “I rarely sleep, not since…” His voice trailed off and several seconds passed before he uttered a sigh. “I have nightmares.”

Sadness filled Booker’s dark eyes, and he nodded his head. “Who wouldn’t?” he replied softly.

A long silence stretched out between them, and as the seconds ticked by, an idea formed in Booker’s mind. He was cautious about sounding too eager, and so he spoke in a low, calm voice. “Do you think you’d sleep better with me in the room?”

Tom chewed anxiously on his lower lip as his fingers picked restlessly at the frayed material of the cushion in his lap. “I don’t know,” he answered eventually. “Maybe.”

Booker knew it was not a prudent move to offer Tom a place next to him in his bed and, therefore, he sacrificed his own comfort for Tom’s peace of mind. “I’ll sleep in the chair; you can stay on the couch.”

A frown creased Tom’s brow, and he shook his head slowly from side to side, his long bangs whipping across his pale face. “Nuh uh, you’re in pain, _I’ll_ sleep in the chair.”

Without thought, Booker’s eyes flitted down to Tom’s gnarled toes, and he wondered how much physical pain his friend lived with on a daily basis. When he imagined the extensive scars covering Tom’s once flawless body, he struggled to keep the pity from showing on his face. He lifted his gaze and tried to smile, but when he saw the wounded look in Tom’s eyes, he bit down on his lower lip and dropped his gaze. “Sorry,” he murmured, “I know I shouldn’t keep staring, but… Jesus, Tommy, I _hurt_ for you.”

When his friend remained silent, he cautiously peered up through his thick lashes and what he saw caused his heart to beat faster. Tom’s trembling fingers held his gathered sweatshirt up to his chin, the grand gesture revealing the extensive damage to his torso. His expression was unemotional, but his chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, an indication that he was feeling a certain amount of anxiety. 

For Booker, the sight laid out before him was so unexpected, his breath hitched in his throat. His wide eyes slowly traveled over the jagged scars traversing his ex-lover’s once smooth flesh and shocked by what he saw, he was unable to disguise the emotion in his voice. “Oh, baby,” he choked, and without thinking, he reached out a hand and lightly traced a finger over the scarred tissue. It was a powerful moment, each bump revealing its own tale of horror, and he took his time exploring every thick, raised scar. But when he felt Tom's flesh quivering beneath his touch, his cock hardened with arousal, and he immediately pulled his hand away. In his eyes, Tom was still the most exquisitely gorgeous man he had ever met and the scars in no way detracted from his beauty. He was and forever would be, his Tommy.

Embarrassed by the intense scrutiny, Tom lowered his shirt and wrapped his arms defensively around his chest. “So,” he muttered in a flat voice. “That’s me… that’s who I am now.”

Booker’s brow knitted into a concerned frown. “And you think that bothers me? Jesus, Tom, how shallow do you think I am?”

When he received no answer, he risked rejection by placing his arm around Tom’s quivering shoulders and pulling him against his chest. Tom’s body stiffened, but he did not jerk away and eventually, his muscles relaxed, and he took comfort from the embrace. 

Encouraged by Tom’s response, Booker lay down on the couch and held his friend in his arms. “Go to sleep,” he whispered, his fingers gently caressing Tom’s hair. “You’re safe now.” 

Minutes passed, and the soothing action eventually lulled Tom’s mind and he slowly drifted towards slumber. 

Once satisfied that Tom was resting peacefully, Booker kissed him tenderly on the top of his head. “I love you,” he murmured and closing his eyes, he hugged him close and fell into a contented sleep.


	43. The First Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: A frown creased Tom’s brow, and he shook his head slowly from side to side, his long bangs whipping across his pale face. “Nuh uh, you’re in pain, I’ll sleep in the chair.”_
> 
> _Without thought, Booker’s eyes flitted down to Tom’s gnarled toes, and he wondered how much physical pain his friend lived with on a daily basis. When he imagined the extensive scars covering Tom’s once flawless body, he struggled to keep the pity from showing on his face. He lifted his gaze and tried to smile, but when he saw the wounded look in Tom’s eyes, he bit down on his lower lip and dropped his gaze. “Sorry,” he murmured, “I know I shouldn’t keep staring, but… Jesus, Tommy, I hurt for you.”_
> 
> _When his friend remained silent, he cautiously peered up through his thick lashes and what he saw caused his heart to beat faster. Tom’s trembling fingers held his gathered sweatshirt up to his chin, the grand gesture revealing the extensive damage to his torso. His expression was unemotional, but his chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, an indication that he was feeling a certain amount of anxiety._
> 
> _For Booker, the sight laid out before him was so unexpected, his breath hitched in his throat. His wide eyes slowly traveled over the jagged scars traversing his ex-lover’s once smooth flesh and shocked by what he saw, he was unable to disguise the emotion in his voice. “Oh, baby,” he choked, and without thinking, he reached out a hand and lightly traced a finger over the scarred tissue. It was a powerful moment, each bump revealing its own tale of horror, and he took his time exploring every thick, raised scar. But when he felt Tom's flesh quivering beneath his touch, his cock hardened with arousal, and he immediately pulled his hand away. In his eyes, Tom was still the most exquisitely gorgeous man he had ever met and the scars in no way detracted from his beauty. He was and forever would be, his Tommy._
> 
> _Embarrassed by the intense scrutiny, Tom lowered his shirt and wrapped his arms defensively around his chest. “So,” he muttered in a flat voice. “That’s me… that’s who I am now.”_
> 
> _Booker’s brow knitted into a concerned frown. “And you think that bothers me? Jesus, Tom, how shallow do you think I am?”_
> 
> _When he received no answer, he risked rejection by placing his arm around Tom’s quivering shoulders and pulling him against his chest. Tom’s body stiffened, but he did not jerk away and eventually, his muscles relaxed, and he took comfort from the embrace._
> 
> _Encouraged by Tom’s response, Booker lay down on the couch and held his friend in his arms. “Go to sleep,” he whispered, his fingers gently caressing Tom’s hair. “You’re safe now.”_
> 
> _Minutes passed, and the soothing action eventually lulled Tom’s mind and he slowly drifted towards slumber._
> 
> _Once satisfied that Tom was resting peacefully, Booker kissed him tenderly on the top of his head. “I love you,” he murmured and closing his eyes, he hugged him close and fell into a contented sleep._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35140382334/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Saturday December 7th 1991 (11.08 a.m.)** _

As Booker flicked through the pages of a gossip magazine, he unconsciously fell into a synchronized rhythm with the audible ticking of the wall clock. Each page turned was another second passed, and he had just about exhausted all the reading material in the waiting room of his local doctor. Tom had been in the examination room for nearly an hour and throughout the interminably long wait, the muscles in his neck and shoulders had become increasingly taut until his upper body throbbed painfully from the tension. Closing the magazine, he tossed it onto the table with a weary sigh and maneuvering his head slowly from side to side, he rubbed a hand over the back of his aching neck and attempted to massage away some of the stiffness in his muscles. The clock continued its cyclic _tick, tock, tick, tock_ and just as he was contemplating jumping to his feet and ripping it from the wall, the exam room door opened.

“Dennis, can you step in for a moment, please,” Doctor Timothy Levine requested in a soft voice.

Rising to his feet, Booker wiped a shaky hand over his mouth and followed the doctor into the room. The first thing he noticed was Tom, who sat on the edge of the examination table, dressed in a thin, blue gown. His slim body appeared frozen in its rigid pose, and his long fingers gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles showing white through the taut skin. Perspiration glistened on his upper lip and the muscles in his face flexed in a steady rhythm as he continuously clenched and unclenched his jaw. Every fiber of his being screamed stress, the tension accentuated by the gauntness of his features and constant twitching of his right hand. He cut a pathetic figure, sitting all alone in an oversized gown, his dark eyes suffused with unshed tears that threatened to spill at any moment, and Booker’s heart panged at the pitiful sight. His Tommy was suffering yet again and all he wanted to do was hold him protectively in his arms and shield him from whatever burden he was now bearing.

Without waiting for Doctor Levine to speak, he rushed across the room and brushed Tom’s long bangs from his sweaty face. “What is it, baby? What’s wrong?”

Tom tried to smile, but he failed miserably and lowering his gaze, his trembling lower lip betrayed his true emotion. “I…” he began, but a sob devoured the rest of his sentence and a single tear escaped from between his lashes and wound its way down his pale cheek.

Doctor Levine stepped forward and resting a hand on Tom’s shoulder, he smiled sympathetically. “It’s okay, Tom, take your time.”

Booker’s heart began to hammer painfully in his chest. “What’s going on?” he asked Levine, his agitation apparent by the rising timbre of his voice.

Although unaccustomed to dealing with trauma patients, Levine was a kind, gentle man with a compassionate bedside manner and he spoke in a relaxed, yet professional tone. “I’d like to perform an internal exam, but Tom is feeling a little uncomfortable about it, which, of course, is entirely justified. Although he presents no symptoms, it’s crucial that I check for anal fissures and fistulas that could result in serious issues later on. Perhaps you could help to reassure him and then we can get the examination over quickly and Tom can relax.”

Suppressing a sigh of relief that Tom’s torment was not due to anything more sinister, Booker sat on the exam bed and draped an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Talk to me, baby,” he murmured in a soft voice, his dark eyes shining with concern. “Tell me how you feel.”

A strained grimace contorted Tom’s features and he hunched his shoulders inwards. “I don’t want him touching me _there_ ,” he whispered, his face a mask of anxiety. “I don’t want _anyone_ touching me there.”

It was a sensitive subject and Booker knew he needed to proceed with caution. Tom needed the examination, but he could understand his reticence. His friend had suffered a shocking ordeal at the hands of Ana and her _pandilla_ and it was little wonder that he was now wary of strange men touching him. However, there was a complexity to his fears because he had willingly performed oral sex on McLeod and that suggested a need to gratify and a penchant for homosexual contact. It was then that Booker realized just how monumentally screwed up Tom really was. The internal exam was just the tip of the iceberg; there would be many years of psychological probing to follow if his ex had any hope of ever leading a normal life again.

He hesitated for a moment before finally responding in a relaxed voice. “How ‘bout I stay with you and if you feel uncomfortable and you want Doctor Levine to stop, he’ll stop. Okay?” 

Tom looked uncertain, but after several long moments, he reluctantly nodded his head. “Okay.”

Doctor Levine flashed Booker a smile of gratitude before returning his attention to Tom. “I’ll be as quick as possible,” he reassured. “Now, lie down on your side and draw your knees up to your chest.”

The sound of latex gloves stretching and snapping into place caused Tom to flinch, but he bravely did as the doctor asked. Seconds later, Booker’s tranquil face came into view and he managed a tense smile. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment. He felt like a fool because he knew both Booker and Levine were trying to help him, but he was struggling to control the fear that was steadily rising inside him, making it difficult for him to breathe.

When Booker grinned back, he relaxed slightly. “Don’t apologize,” the dark-haired officer murmured, and taking Tom’s cold fingers in his, he gave them a reassuring squeeze. “Just keep looking at me and it’ll be over before you know it.”

Taking an unsteady breath, Tom waited for the indignity to begin. Several long seconds passed before he felt a slick finger pressing against him. 

“Just relax, Tom, and remember to breathe,” Levine instructed softly and without further pause, he gently inserted his finger.

Tom’s eyes screwed closed and his breathing became jagged. As his stomach knotted in panic, he tried to concentrate on Booker’s voice, but the deafening _whoosh_ of blood pounding in his ears made it difficult for him to hear the soft words of comfort. However, he could still feel warm fingers entwined in his own and he squeezed them as his need for reassurance became desperate. Seconds later, soft lips pressed against his forehead and the discomfort of Doctor Levine’s probing finger became secondary as he focused on the tenderness of the kiss. It was the affection he craved but was too frightened to acknowledge. His liaison with McLeod had been different; he sucked him off and in return, he received gentle caresses and vocal praise for his skill and attention. However, with Dennis, there was a noticeable contrast… he was still in love with him. But it was more complicated than simply being in love. He could never commit to a physical relationship like the one they had once shared and anything less would be a compromise. He was dead below the waist and, therefore, he was physically incapable of giving the man he adored what he deserved; a partner who could reciprocate the passion he bestowed.

When a light hand rested on his shoulder, his eyes flew open and he realized his ordeal was finally over. “Well done, Tom,” Doctor Levine praised with a gentle smile. “Everything’s fine, so why don’t you get dressed and take a seat in the waiting room. I’d like to speak to Dennis about what we discussed earlier. Okay?”

A relieved sigh escaped from between Tom’s lips. “Okay,” he murmured and casting a glance at Booker, he climbed from the bed and exited through the door that led into the change room.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Booker grasped hold of Levine’s arm. “Is he really okay?” he asked, his eyes desperately searching the doctor’s face for clues.

Levine smiled reassuringly. “He’s extremely fortunate, given the nature of his rape. He’s healed remarkably well and I’m not foreseeing any further physical problems. However, that’s only one small facet of Tom’s overall wellbeing.”

Booker’s brow knitted together. “Meaning?”

Motioning towards a chair, Levine took a seat behind his desk and lacing his fingers together, he rested his elbows on the smooth wood. “Tom’s given me written permission to discuss his medical information with you. Are you comfortable with that?”

Somewhat surprised that Tom was willing to divulge the intimate details of his physical and psychological health, Booker nodded. “Of course. I want to help Tom any way I can.”

Lowering his hands onto the desk, Levine studied Booker’s anxious expression. “I don’t want to pry into your private life, Dennis, but I think it’s important that I know. Are you and Tom in a sexual relationship?”

It was not the question Booker had been expecting, and his expression darkened. “What _exactly_ does that have to do with Tom’s health?” he asked in a stilted voice.

Levine leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest. “You’ve known me a long time, Dennis. Do you honestly believe I would ask you such a question if I didn’t think it was relevant?”

Although he had known Doctor Levine since middle school, Booker had not discussed his sexuality with him since he had first come out at the age of sixteen. Back then, he had asked various questions about STDs and safe sex, but since then, there had been no reason to bring up his sex life. He was a fit and healthy twenty-five year old, who used condoms and for added peace of mind, subjected himself to yearly blood tests. In his mind, they were there to discuss Tom, not him and he could not help but feel annoyed.

Sticking his legs out in front of him, he mirrored Levine’s posture by folding his arms defensively across his chest. “Okay, I’ll bite, Doc. You tell me why it’s relevant and I’ll decide for myself.”

Somewhat amused by Dennis’ tough guy attitude, Levine suppressed a smile. “Fair enough. Reason number one, Tom spent eighteen months in prison having unprotected sex. The hospital tested him for all the standard diseases, including HIV, and the results came back negative. However, I have taken more blood for analysis, just to be safe. It’s quite common to have a second test six months after sexual contact, and given Tom’s past, I think it’s a good idea. If you _are_ in a sexual relationship with him, you need to be tested too.”

Booker started to speak, but Levine silenced him with a well-practiced look. “Please let me finish. _Secondly_ , it’s my belief that Tom is suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. This would partly explain his impotence although some male rape victims suffer from a condition known as satyriasis, which is a term used to describe hyper-sexuality in a man. The last thing Tom needs is to be in a sexual relationship, _especially_ a _homo_ sexual relationship. He needs extensive therapy so he can learn to come to terms with what has happened to him. His judgment is impaired, he’s seeking affection, but for all the wrong reasons. If you truly love him, you won’t pressure him into having sex. What he needs first and foremost is a friend; anything more could prove catastrophic.”

Every word out of the doctor’s mouth made perfect sense to Booker and his face flushed pink with embarrassment. Tom _did_ need a friend and not a lover, and even though he gave himself the pep talk at least twice a day, his heart refused to acknowledge the truth. However, with Levine’s words now ringing in his ears, he knew he needed to try harder. He loved Tom, but _loving_ him was not in his best interest, at least for the moment.

Unfolding his arms, he exhaled heavily. “We’re not in a sexual relationship,” he confessed quietly. “We were… before all this happened… and I _want_ to be again. But you’re right, the most important thing is Tom’s health and so you have my word that our relationship will remain platonic until he’s ready for something more.”

Levine narrowed his eyes and studied Booker’s flushed face. “It could take years… or it may never happen. Are you prepared for that?”

A slow smile played over Booker’s lips. “Believe me, Doc, after what we’ve been through, I’m prepared for _anything_.”

**

_**Sunday December 8th 1991 (12.52 a.m.)** _

With Tom fast asleep on the couch, Booker sat in an armchair in his darkened apartment, drinking his sixth glass of scotch. After discussing Tom’s PTSD, Doctor Levine had explained in some detail, his other findings. It was his belief that Tom was over-medicated, and that the anti-anxiety drugs were contributing to his slow speech and short-term memory loss. It was a relief for Booker to know that some of Tom’s disabilities could possibly become less prominent just by decreasing his medication, but he also worried about his mental state. However, he trusted his doctor implicitly, and he knew Levine would monitor Tom carefully and adjust his medication accordingly.

The news about Tom’s right hand and his halting gait were not so encouraging. Levine had revealed that it was his opinion that the tremors and limp were a symptom of irreversible nerve damage, but on the off chance that he was wrong, he had given Tom a referral letter to see a neurologist. 

Lastly, Levine had provided the names of several reputable psychologists who dealt with PTSD in rape victims. One had his office only a few blocks from their apartment and to Booker, it seemed like providence because Tom could walk there. However, when they had arrived home, Tom had been willing to discuss every aspect of his visit to the doctor, except for the psychologist’s referral. As soon as Booker had mentioned the convenience of the locality, he had become sullen and withdrawn, his downcast eyes refusing to make contact. It had taken all of Booker’s willpower not to push the subject, but in the end, he had tactfully let the matter drop. 

But now, as he gazed through bleary, drunken eyes at Tom’s sleeping form, he hoped he would not have a battle on his hands. Tom needed psychological help and the sooner he received it, the easier his life would be.


	44. All I Want for Christmas ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Sunday December 8th, 1991 (12.52 a.m.)_
> 
> _With Tom fast asleep on the couch, Booker sat in an armchair in his darkened apartment, drinking his sixth glass of scotch. After discussing Tom’s PTSD, Doctor Levine had explained in some detail, his other findings. It was his belief that Tom was over-medicated, and that the anti-anxiety drugs were contributing to his slow speech and short-term memory loss. It was a relief for Booker to know that some of Tom’s disabilities could possibly become less prominent just by decreasing his medication, but he also worried about his mental state. However, he trusted his doctor implicitly, and he knew Levine would monitor Tom carefully and adjust his medication accordingly._
> 
> _The news about Tom’s right hand and his halting gait were not so encouraging. Levine had revealed that it was his opinion that the tremors and limp were a symptom of irreversible nerve damage, but on the off chance that he was wrong, he had given Tom a referral letter to see a neurologist._
> 
> _Lastly, Levine had provided the names of several reputable psychologists who dealt with PTSD in rape victims. One had his office only a few blocks from their apartment and to Booker, it seemed like providence because Tom could walk there. However, when they had arrived home, Tom had been willing to discuss every aspect of his visit to the doctor, except for the psychologist’s referral. As soon as Booker had mentioned the convenience of the locality, he had become sullen and withdrawn, his downcast eyes refusing to make contact. It had taken all of Booker’s willpower not to push the subject, but in the end, he had tactfully let the matter drop._
> 
> _But now, as he gazed through bleary, drunken eyes at Tom’s sleeping form, he hoped he would not have a battle on his hands. Tom needed psychological help and the sooner he received it, the easier his life would be._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35938728366/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday December 24th 1991 (7.18 a.m.)** _

Tom adjusted the temperature of the shower and stepping under the warm flow of water, he pulled the curtain closed behind him. Bowing his head, he exhaled a contented sigh as the therapeutic spray thrummed against his scarred flesh. Nearly three weeks had passed since his visit to Doctor Levine and his head was feeling much clearer now that the dosage of his anti-anxiety medication was half the amount his previous doctor had prescribed. He no longer suffered from short-term memory loss and his speech was almost back to normal, although a slight hesitancy still remained, hinting that he was still uncertain of his words. But overall, it was a marked improvement, despite the tremor in his hand and mild apraxia that was only noticeable when he walked and he was feeling much more positive about the future. However, there was one aspect of his rehabilitation that he was dreading, and that was his impending meeting with the psychologist. The lead up to Christmas had made it almost impossible to schedule an appointment, and although he had kept his thoughts to himself, he was secretly relieved that the earliest consultation was not until the New Year. He was dreading sitting down in front of a stranger and recounting the last four years of his life, starting with the death of Amy and finishing with his ongoing impotence. The inability to obtain an erection weighed heavily on his mind because he was convinced it defined him and confirmed his inadequacies as a man. His mental and physical defects simmered just beneath the surface of his consciousness and they reinforced his belief that he was incapable of giving or receiving love. There was no getting around it, he was a failure as a human being and he deserved the life that fate had bestowed upon him.

He deserved to remain loveless and alone.

A shiver of repentance brought goose bumps prickling to the surface of his skin and reaching down, he stroked a finger along the length of his flaccid cock. Come hell or high water, he was determined to feel _something, anything_ that would restore his confidence and reassure him that he could still experience sexual pleasure. He would be damned if he would talk about his sexual failings with a stranger, he would cure himself, even if he had to masturbate a hundred times a day.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to relax his shoulders, but the tension in his body made it impossible and so he turned his full attention to the limp shaft in his hand. Slowly pumping his fist up and down, he willed his cock to harden as he began to mutter a soft mantra under his breath. 

“C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon…” he breathed, but the incantation had no effect and his penis remained soft and unresponsive between his fingers.

Seconds turned into minutes and when the inanimate flesh in his hand failed to respond to his ministrations, a surge of raw emotion erupted from within him. “DAMN IT!” he screamed and releasing his lifeless cock, he slammed his fist repeatedly against the mosaic-tiled wall. “DAMN IT! DAMN IT! _DAMN IT!”_

Pain flared in his knuckles and holding his damaged hand against his chest, he fought back tears. “Why?” he lamented quietly. “Why can’t I _feel_ anything?”

A loud pounding on the door had him jumping in surprise and pulling back the shower curtain, he struggled to focus his teary eyes. Seconds later, Booker’s panicked voice sounded through the wooden paneling. “Tom! Is everything okay?”

Releasing the curtain, Tom swallowed down his tears. “Leave me alone,” he muttered in a barely audible voice.

“Tommy! If you don’t answer me, I’m coming—”

“I SAID, LEAVE… ME… _ALONE!”_ Tom shrieked, his face reddening with the force of his words.

The steady stream of water interspersed with the resonance of labored breathing soon became the only sounds echoing off the tiled walls and satisfied that Booker had retreated, Tom turned off the faucets and stepped out into the steamy bathroom. He swiftly patted himself dry with a towel, the sight of his naked flesh making his skin crawl. He was beginning to loathe every aspect of his body; it was his adversary, his betrayer and a constant, mocking reminder of his impuissance. But if he wanted to overcome his sexual inadequacies, he needed to cast aside his revulsion and focus on obtaining an erection. Otherwise, he was facing the demoralizing and humiliating experience of disclosing his impotence to a therapist.

Once dry, he quickly covered his naked flesh with a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants. He avoided looking in the mirror, preferring to finger-comb his damp hair. After brushing his teeth, he pulled on a pair of worn sneakers and taking several deep, calming breaths, he mentally counted to ten and opening the door, he stepped out into the living room.

Booker stood on the small fire escape, staring out at the traffic below. When he heard Tom’s footsteps behind him, he did not turn around; instead, he continued to study the cars that streamed in increasing numbers past his building. Many of them were packed for the holidays and he felt a pang of nostalgia as he remembered loading up his father’s Buick in readiness for their once a year road trip to visit his grandmother in Portland. Up until his twenty-first birthday, they had spent almost every Christmas with his Granny June and he had fond memories of the festive season. But in an unprecedented move, he had suggested to Tom that instead of celebrating Christmas in the traditional sense, they would spend the day fly-fishing at Dockweiler State Beach. His rationale was twofold. Firstly, he knew Tom could not afford to buy him a present, and as gifts were a traditional part of both their upbringings, he decided it was easier to avoid any embarrassment. Secondly, he was worried Tom might start to dwell on absent friends and family, especially Doug and his mother. Christmas tended to be a time of reflection and he did not want him spiraling into a black pit of depression as memories of past holidays haunted his mind. He wanted his friend to experience a relaxed, carefree day spent outdoors in the company of nature and he hoped, by starting a new tradition, their first Christmas spent together would be a memorable one.

He continued to stare down at the traffic that had now slowed to a snail’s pace as commuters fought to leave the city for their holiday destinations, and his mind returned to Tom’s recent outburst. Although not one hundred percent certain of the cause, he had a pretty good idea and he felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. On several occasions, he had caught Tom discreetly fondling himself through his jeans and it had soon become apparent that his friend’s impotence was becoming an issue. But he had quickly made the decision not to broach the subject unless Tom brought it up first. Being a male, he understood Tom’s humiliation; there was nothing more emasculating than a failure to perform and he did not want to add to his embarrassment by confronting him about it. However, he also knew he could not ignore the tantrum and so he addressed Tom without turning to face him. “Are you okay?”

Tom’s lackluster voice sounded from directly behind him. “Yeah, I guess.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air and sighing heavily, Booker turned around. Immediately, a warm, hungry mouth engulfed him and the stringent taste of spearmint toothpaste assaulted his taste buds as a moist tongue entwined with his own. Although the contact was unexpected, it was what he had dreamed about every night since finding Tom, and for a fraction of a second, he allowed the emotion and fervor of the kiss to sweep away all of his fears and doubts. But when Tom’s body began to grind desperately against him, common sense kicked in and breaking the kiss, he staggered backward. “Whoa!”

Immediately, Tom’s lower lip pushed into a petulant pout and his dark eyes flashed with annoyance. “What?” he asked in a stony voice. “Once upon a time, you couldn’t wait to get into my pants. What’s changed? Is it ‘cause I can’t get it up, is that it? Am I a turnoff? An embarrassment? Do I repulse—”

“Stop!” Booker exclaimed in a loud voice and raking his fingers through his hair, he glared at Tom with huge, incredulous eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tom exhaled a snort of contempt. “Are you shitting me? What’s _wrong_ with me? Where would you like me to fucking start?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Booker replied in a more moderate tone. He could see that Tom was really hurting and he refused to allow his temper to exacerbate an already volatile situation. “Talk to me,” he murmured, “tell me what’s going on.”

Tom’s glowering expression slowly faded to one of despondency and wiping a trembling hand across his mouth, he struggled to articulate his feelings. “You don’t understand... I can’t… and I thought… _shit!_ I thought maybe... I dunno... I thought maybe I’d feel something if we…” 

His voice trailed off and he stared morosely out of the open window before exhaling heavily. “Pretty stupid, huh?”

Without hesitation, Booker stepped forward and wrapping his arms protectively around Tom’s waist, he nuzzled against his neck and inhaled the sweet soapy scent that permeated his skin. “No, not stupid,” he murmured into the shower-warm flesh. “It’s just… I don’t think it’s the right time, that’s all.”

Closing his eyes, Tom basked in the sensation of contentment as Booker’s hot breath tickled his sensitive skin. But he needed answers and with a restless sigh, he gently disengaged himself from the young officer’s hold. “Is it 'cause Doc Levine told you to back off?” he asked bluntly, his dark eyes searching Booker’s face for any sign of deception.

Aware of the scrutiny, Booker chose his words carefully. “Partly, but mostly because I want to do things right this time. I don't want to screw everything up by being too… _impulsive_.”

A flicker of sadness crossed Tom’s gaze and lowering his eyes to the floor, he wrapped his arms around his torso and scuffed at the carpet with the toe of his sneaker. “ _You_ didn’t screw things up before,” he mumbled into his chest. “ _I_ did.”

Booker heaved a regretful sigh and rested a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter who was at fault, Tommy. What’s important is that we don’t make the same mistake again.”

Tom’s expression became pensive before his lower lip pushed into a soft, enticing pout and lifting his gaze slightly, he peered solemnly up at Booker through his long, thick lashes. “I have trouble trusting people,” he confessed softly, his dark eyes shimmering with emotion. “But I _do_ trust you. I’m lonely, Dennis. I had no real human contact for six months and then _you_ showed up. It was terrifying, but suddenly, there was someone who believed in me and didn’t just see a disabled ex-con. You made me _want_ to be Tom Hanson again and that’s why I stopped taking my meds; I didn’t want to be that fucked up zombie anymore. But I crave more… I _need_ more. There’s something between us and I can’t live here pretending there’s not. I know we can’t be _intimate_ , but there’s nothing wrong with hugging and kissing, is there? I mean, we’re friends, right? We can do that as friends.”

As Tom spoke openly from his heart, Booker’s eyes remained fixated on his moving mouth and the alluring pink bow of his pouting lips, accentuated against the paleness of his skin, was too much for him to bear and he felt his resolve wavering. However, as much as he wanted to lose himself in the warmth of Tom’s embrace and savor the sweetness of his soft, tender kisses, Doctor Levine’s words echoed loudly in his mind. Whilst he understood Tom’s need for affection, he respected Levine’s qualifications as a doctor and he knew he needed to push aside his own wants and needs, and do what was right for the damaged man standing before him. Therefore, he made a decision that he hoped would be agreeable for all concerned.

Taking Tom by the hand, he studied his damaged knuckles for a moment before leading him over to the couch and sitting down. When Tom had seated himself beside him, he brushed the long bangs from the dark eyes gazing intently at him and smiled hesitantly. “Yes to hugging, no to kissing.”

When Tom started to protest, he held up a hand in a gesture of silence. “We need to do this right, Tommy. I love you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be responsible for hurting you again. First, you need extensive counseling by a trained psychologist and then, maybe we can talk about it again.”

“Maybe?” Tom responded petulantly. “That doesn’t sound very promising.”

Booker suppressed a grin. “That’s all I’m offering. Take it or leave it.”

Although disappointed, Tom knew Booker well enough to know he had made his mind up and exhaling heavily, he managed a small smile. “I’ll take it.”


	45. Respice, Adspice, Prospice  (Examining the past, the Present, the Future)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I have taken a couple of liberties with this chapter. Firstly, Reservoir Dogs was actually released in October 1992. But you probably wouldn't have known that if I hadn't told you!**
> 
> **Secondly, Tom's recovery has happened quite quickly. The reason for this is twofold.**
> 
> **a) I don't want this story to drag on any longer than it already has and b) I wanted Dennis' birthday to coincide with Tom's "reawakening".**
> 
> **Thanks for your understanding.**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage xx**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Previously: Closing his eyes, Tom basked in the sensation of contentment as Booker’s hot breath tickled his sensitive skin. But he needed answers and with a restless sigh, he gently disengaged himself from the young officer’s hold. “Is it 'cause Doc Levine told you to back off?” he asked bluntly, his dark eyes searching Booker’s face for any sign of deception._
> 
> _Aware of the scrutiny, Booker chose his words carefully. “Partly, but mostly because I want to do things right this time. I don't want to screw everything up by being too… impulsive.”_
> 
> _A flicker of sadness crossed Tom’s gaze and lowering his eyes to the floor, he wrapped his arms around his torso and scuffed at the carpet with the toe of his sneaker. “You didn’t screw things up before,” he mumbled into his chest. “I did.”_
> 
> _Booker heaved a regretful sigh and rested a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter who was at fault, Tommy. What’s important is that we don’t make the same mistake again.”_
> 
> _Tom’s expression became pensive before his lower lip pushed into a soft, enticing pout and lifting his gaze slightly, he peered solemnly up at Booker through his long, thick lashes. “I have trouble trusting people,” he confessed softly, his dark eyes shimmering with emotion. “But I do trust you. I’m lonely, Dennis. I had no real human contact for six months and then you showed up. It was terrifying, but suddenly, there was someone who believed in me and didn’t just see a disabled ex-con. You made me want to be Tom Hanson again and that’s why I stopped taking my meds; I didn’t want to be that fucked up zombie anymore. But I crave more… I need more. There’s something between us and I can’t live here pretending there’s not. I know we can’t be intimate, but there’s nothing wrong with hugging and kissing, is there? I mean, we’re friends, right? We can do that as friends.”_
> 
> _As Tom spoke openly from his heart, Booker’s eyes remained fixated on his moving mouth and the alluring pink bow of his pouting lips, accentuated against the paleness of his skin, was too much for him to bear and he felt his resolve wavering. However, as much as he wanted to lose himself in the warmth of Tom’s embrace and savor the sweetness of his soft, tender kisses, Doctor Levine’s words echoed loudly in his mind. Whilst he understood Tom’s need for affection, he respected Levine’s qualifications as a doctor and he knew he needed to push aside his own wants and needs, and do what was right for the damaged man standing before him. Therefore, he made a decision that he hoped would be agreeable for all concerned._
> 
> _Taking Tom by the hand, he studied his damaged knuckles for a moment before leading him over to the couch and sitting down. When Tom had seated himself beside him, he brushed the long bangs from the dark eyes gazing intently at him and smiled hesitantly. “Yes to hugging, no to kissing.”_
> 
> _When Tom started to protest, he held up a hand in a gesture of silence. “We need to do this right, Tommy. I love you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be responsible for hurting you again. First, you need extensive counseling by a trained psychologist and then, maybe we can talk about it again.”_
> 
> _“Maybe?” Tom responded petulantly. “That doesn’t sound very promising.”_
> 
> _Booker suppressed a grin. “That’s all I’m offering. Take it or leave it.”_
> 
> _Although disappointed, Tom knew Booker well enough to know he had made his mind up and exhaling heavily, he managed a small smile. “I’ll take it.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35938728306/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Three months later - Monday March 23rd, 1992 (7.22 p.m.)** _

The smell of burnt cheese assailed Booker’s nostrils and closing the apartment door, his gaze turned towards the small kitchenette. 

Tom stood in a slightly bent-over position, his oven mitt encased hands resting just above his knees and his brow crinkled in amused perplexity as he peered into the open oven with narrowed eyes. Tendrils of smoke wafted around his head, giving him an ethereal appearance in spite of the apron tied around his waist and the unpleasant odor permeating the air. When the sound of the door alerted him to Booker’s presence, he turned his head and straightening up, he smiled a crooked smile. “I cooked dinner, but I think I burned it.”

Tossing his jacket onto the sofa, Booker marveled at the sight of Tom in an apron and oven mitts. “You can’t cook.”

“Okay, I _heated_ dinner,” Tom confessed with a laugh. “But I’m pretty sure it’s beyond saving. I wanted to do something special for your birthday, but maybe we could stay in and order pizza instead. We could put candles on it, and if you play your cards right, I might sing.”

Booker rubbed furiously at his chin, and his gaze flitted uncomfortably around the room before settling back on Tom’s grinning face. “Um, I kinda told Harry and some of the guys I’d meet them at The BoHo for drinks… but you can come along… if you want.”

The lively sparkle immediately faded from Tom’s eyes. It was obvious the invitation was an afterthought, and he could not believe Dennis did not want him to be part of his birthday celebrations. His lower lip started to quiver with emotion, but he quickly pulled himself together and yanking off the oven mitts, he threw them forcefully onto the kitchen counter. “Gee, _can_ I?” he growled through clenched teeth. “Thanks, _pal_.”

The sarcastic tone was not lost on Booker, but he chose to ignore it because he did not want to get into an argument. He knew Tom was hurting, but it was _his_ birthday and for once, he wanted to go out and not have to deal with any drama. 

“What was I supposed to do, Tommy?” he asked with a weary sigh. “They want to celebrate my birthday with me, I couldn’t say no. Besides, I figured you wouldn’t feel comfortable being with a group of men you didn’t know. ”

“Fuck you!” Tom snapped, his lips twisting into an angry snarl. “Just say it. I’m a fucking embarrassment, and you don’t want to be seen in public with me.”

Booker was not about to let Tom emotionally blackmail him and he immediately bit back. “Okay, fine. When you behave like a spoiled brat, you _are_ a fucking embarrassment. In case you’ve forgotten, _Hanson,_ the world doesn’t always revolve around you! It’s _my_ birthday, and I can do any damn thing I want!”

Ripping off his apron, Tom screwed it into a ball and hurled it at Dennis. “FINE! HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY, _ASSHOLE!”_ and with tears blurring his vision, he grabbed his keys and stumbled from the apartment.

**

_**Monday March 23rd, 1992 (9.38 p.m.)** _

“You did _what?”_ Harry shouted over the music. 

Booker stared despondently down at his boots and shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, he hunched his shoulders inward. "I kinda told him he wasn't welcome.”

Harry's eyes widened in shocked surprise. "You didn't? Shit, man, that's harsh. No wonder he’s pissed off."

Embarrassed and ashamed of his actions, Booker immediately went on the defensive. "I didn't mean to! I was just psyched to go out with the boys. We've been working so hard on this damn case... and... you know Tom, he's always so moody. I just wanted to have some fun without worrying about him, you know?"

Taking Booker by the arm, Harry steered him into the adjacent bar that was a little less crowded and not quite so noisy. He found a table and when they were seated opposite each other, he leaned his elbows on the flat surface and propped his face in his hands. “You know he’s still in love with you, right?” he revealed with a knowing smile.

Booker’s eyebrows shot into his hairline before settling into a contemplative frown. He knew he should not be surprised at Harry’s level of perception, but it never ceased to amaze him how intuitive his friend actually was. 

With a heavy sigh, he slumped in his seat. “I know. _FUCK!_ It’s so screwed up. We’re drifting further apart because I’m constantly fighting to keep our relationship platonic, but what I _really_ want to do is rip his clothes off and…”

When Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, he returned a tight-lipped smile. “Too much information?”

Harry grinned back. “A little. But I understand what you’re saying. What does his therapist have to say about it?”

Booker shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Tom won’t discuss it with me.”

Tilting his head to one side, Ioki gave his friend a measured look. “Have you asked him?”

Booker absently rubbed at his lips and after a long, drawn-out pause, he exhaled heavily. “Not in so many words.”

Ioki’s expression softened and the corners of his full lips tilted upwards. “Well, maybe you should.”

**

_**Monday March 23rd, 1992 (10.38 p.m.)** _

Unable to shake thoughts of Tom from his mind, Booker left the bar with his co-workers teasing rendition of Bryan Adam’s _(Everything I do) I Do It for You_ ringing in his ears. He hailed a cab, and after giving the driver his address, he climbed into the passenger seat of the vehicle and stared out of the window during the short drive home. Arriving back at his apartment, he turned his key in the lock and opening the door, he found himself welcomed by darkness and a deafening silence. Flicking the light switch, he closed the door and tossing his keys on the kitchen counter, he walked over to the closed bedroom door and after a moment’s hesitation, turned the handle. 

Tom lay on the mattress under the window that had served as his bed for the last three months. Only his dark hair was visible from beneath the duvet, the messy strands standing in soft peaks around his head. His soft breathing and the steady rise and fall of his shoulders indicated he was asleep, but Booker was impatient. He had an overwhelming need to get all his thoughts out into the open and clearing his throat, he spoke in a loud voice. “Tom?”

A disgruntled moan sounded from beneath the covers, but he was not about to be ignored and he spoke in an even louder voice. “TOMMY!”

Seconds passed before there was finally some movement beneath the duvet and Tom’s eyes peered out from beneath the protection of the bedclothes. “What?” he asked, his tone conveying his annoyance.

Booker shrugged out of his jacket and tossing it onto a chair, he sat down on the edge of his bed. “Are you angry with me?”

Unable to believe the audacity of the question, Tom moodily avoided eye contact, preferring to keep his gaze firmly fixed on Booker’s boots. “Gee, what gave it away, _officer?”_ he asked in a stony voice. 

A visible weariness passed over Booker’s face and standing up, he huffed out a sigh. “Forget it. Go back to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”

As he started to turn away, his gaze fell upon a rectangular parcel tucked beneath his pillow and with a curious frown, he picked up the slim package and turned it over in his hands. “What’s this?”

Tom struggled to a sitting position and wrapping his arms protectively around his bent knees, he addressed Booker’s boots. “It’s your birthday present.”

With his heart hammering heavily in his chest, Booker ripped off the paper with shaky hands and stared at the spiraled notebook. “Your journal? Tommy… I—”

“Pretty fucking stupid, huh?” Tom interjected in a flat voice. “Who wants a journal of someone else's thoughts?”

Booker started to speak, to tell Tom that it meant everything to him that he trusted him with his innermost secrets. But the words stuck in his throat and he remained mute, his eyes transfixed by the words **_TOM'S JOURNAL_** written on the cover in Tom’s shaky handwriting.

When he received no answer, Tom clambered slowly to his feet and gathering his pillow and duvet into his arms, he stared despondently at the floor. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered and turning away, he walked out of the room and closed the door. 

Shocked by the turn of events, Booker stared at the closed door for several long minutes before sitting back on the bed. He struggled internally with his emotions, but eventually, he came to the decision that it was best to leave Tom alone, at least for the interim. Propping up his pillow, he leaned back against the headboard and bending his knees, he rested the dog-eared notebook against his thighs. A slow shiver of apprehension tingled his scalp and taking several deep breaths, he mentally prepared himself for the secrets contained within the slim volume. He was not sure he wanted to journey inside Tom’s damaged mind, but he knew there was no turning back and opening the book, he began to read.

**1/7/92**

**So, I’m supposed to keep a ‘Thought Journal’ and write at least two entries a week. It’s a stupid idea. What am I? A fucking 12 year old girl?**

**Therapy sucks.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**1/10/92**

**What to write … what to write … I don’t have any thoughts because to think means opening the vault of my mind and if I do that, then I’ll have to acknowledge all the memories I’ve kept buried for so long.**

**I hate this.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**1/21/92**

**I didn’t write anything last week because I didn’t want to. Therapy’s a fucking waste of time and I’m only going because Dennis wants me to. I know I’m screwed up, I don’t need some overpaid ‘psychoanalyst’ telling me why I ‘feel’ the way I do. I’m responsible for the deaths of three people, it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure it out!!!!**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**1/23/92**

**I saw the neurologist again today and he told me I have nerve damage and an ABI, which is doctor-speak for an acquired brain injury. So basically, this is as good as it gets.**

**I guess that means I’ll never bowl again.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**1/26/92**

**I caught Dennis staring at me today. I wonder what he really sees when he looks at me. A friend? A lover? A crim? A whore? A murderer? Shit. There are too many nouns to choose from. Maybe he doesn’t see anyone … maybe I don’t really exist … maybe I’m a ghost … maybe I really did die on that stinking mattress with Manning’s cock up my ass …**

**Maybe this is hell.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**1/29/92**

**Last night I dreamed about Doug. Dreams are better than nightmares, but it was still terrifying. He was on his bike and he looked angry. I called out to him, but he wouldn’t look at me. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for what I did and I don’t blame him.** **~~I took his life and~~**

**I don’t want to write about this stuff anymore.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**2/3/92**

**Doug’s haunting me. He’s in all my dreams, but he won’t talk to me. Why won’t he talk to me? Or yell at me? Or fucking punch me? All he does is sit on his bike and stare at me. At least he’s seeing me now, I suppose that’s something. I keep telling him I’m sorry, but … Fuck, I miss him so much it hurts. I’m sorry Doug. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’M SORRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**2/6/92**

**Amy’s with Doug now. Not ‘with’ with, but with. I can’t concentrate … What I mean is, Amy and Doug are both appearing in my dreams. She’s sitting on the back of his bike, which is weird because she hated motorbikes, she thought they were dangerous. But I suppose she doesn’t have to worry about dying now she’s dead.**

**Fuck. That wasn’t funny.**

**WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME????**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**2/8/92**

**Why am I surprised that Mosco is now a ‘creature feature’ in my dreams? He’s wearing a t-shirt that has ‘I’M WITH CHICO’ written on the front. I miss being called Chico. I miss Mosco. I loved him and I’ve forgiven him for betraying me. Shit … maybe I shouldn’t have written that. If Dennis reads this, he’ll get pissed. I’m a cheater. I cheated on Dennis. I don’t know why I did that. I think I was lonely. And scared. I was scared and Mosco … He didn’t love me then, I was his toy, but he did love me at the end, I know that. He took his life … no, I took his life…**

**I need a break …**

**… I’m back.**

**I miss Doug. God, I miss Doug.** **~~But I don’t miss~~** **I’m sorry, Amy, I’m sorry you died. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I was such a shitty boyfriend. I’m sorry I didn’t love you. I’M SORRY!**

**I miss my mom. I miss Judy. I miss Fuller. I miss Harry. I miss my life. Harry comes by, but it’s hard to talk to him. I’m responsible for him getting shot, but he’s too nice a guy to cut me off completely. I think it’s because of Dennis. They’re best friends and Dennis and I are …**

**I have no idea what Dennis and I are.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**2/11/92**

**It’s hard being with Dennis every day. He’s so beautiful, but I’m not allowed to tell him because we’re ‘just friends’. I don’t want to be ‘just friends’, I want him to kiss me like he used to before I went to prison. I want him to fuck me, I want to see the ecstatic look on his face when he cums … even though I can’t cum … I want him to feel it, to experience the elation. But … I don’t want to be touched there, not since … How fucked up is that? Dennis should be with someone who makes him happy. I don’t think I make him happy. I can’t give him what he wants, even though I want to, my body won’t let me. What they did to me at the warehouse, it hurt so fucking much and when I think about it … Dennis should find someone else and forget about me. His life is passing by and all he does is work and take care of me. It’s not right. I’m killing him, but not in the same way I killed Amy, Doug, and Mosco. I’m killing him slowly. I’m suffocating him. I might as well hold a pillow over his face while he’s sleeping. It’s the same thing. I’m the Grim Reaper and if I stay here, I’ll suck out his soul.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**2/13/92**

**I hate myself.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**2/17/92**

**Happy fucking Presidents’ Day. Who fucking cares? I don’t. Dennis is still working. He works a lot. I think he does it so he doesn’t have to be with me. I wish we could do things together, like the fishing trip we took at Christmas. We had fun. I think that was the last time we had fun together. After that, he started keeping his distance.** **~~At first I thought it was because~~**

**Fuck it, I need a drink.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**2/22/92**

**I need to stop drinking. Not that Dennis notices, he’s never here, he’s working seven days a week on some stakeout. I think it’s a bullshit excuse. He’s avoiding me because he can’t stand to look at me anymore. My only company is Doug, Amy and Mosco, they’re with me all the fucking time. But they don’t speak, they just look at me. Maybe they want me to join them. Maybe I should.**

**I think I might be losing my mind.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**2/24/92**

**Dennis and I had a fight. He came home, found me passed out on the floor and he completely lost it. But at least he spoke to me, I can’t even remember the last conversation we had. He’s thrown out all the booze and told me that if I do it again, he’ll kick me out. I’m self-destructing and I don’t know why … No. That’s a fucking lie, I do know why. I’m doing it so Dennis will hate me and then he’ll be free to live his life without having to worry about an ex-junkie murdering whore. I don’t deserve him and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve a fuckup like me.**

**Why is life so fucking hard?????**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**2/29/92**

**I’ve seen Dr. Li every day this week and for the first time since I started therapy, I feel like maybe he can help me. I’ve stopped drinking and Doug, Amy and Mosco don’t seem to be hanging around as much as they used to. I still see them, but they’re fainter like they’re fading away or something. Maybe the key to their eternal peace is my happiness. Fuck, now I sound like a shrink! This is so screwed up. I just want to get well.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**3/4/92**

**I’M IN LOVE WITH DENNIS BOOKER!!!**

**Jesus, maybe I really am a 12 year old girl.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**3/7/92**

**Went to the movies with Dennis and saw ‘Reservoir Dogs’. I think Tarantino might be more screwed up than me! Dennis and I are both trying really hard to get along and it seems to be working. I don’t want Dennis to look at me with sympathy anymore, I want to be his equal like I used to be. Dr. Li says I’m making progress, but I hate remembering everything that’s happened, I just want to lock the memories away in a box and throw away the key. But I know I have to face up to my past and accept what’s happened because if I don’t, I’ll be a nutjob forever.**

**I think I’m starting to heal.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**3/8/92**

**Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit! I woke up this morning with a hard-on! Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I was semi-erect, which was the most amazing fucking feeling ever! I tried to jerk off, but it didn’t last and I went soft again. But fuck! I WAS HARD!!!!**

**Today is a good day.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**3/9/92**

**I saw Doc Li today and I told him what happened. He told me not to think about it too much and to let my body ‘re-awaken’ in its own time. But it’s so hard (no pun intended) because I want this so fucking much! For the first time in nearly ten months, I feel like a man.**

**TOMMY HANSON IS BACK!**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**3/15/92**

**I’m starting to stress out. I haven’t had another boner since the first one. Why is my body playing fucking games with me? Doc Li keeps telling me to relax, but he’s never felt the shame and embarrassment of not being able to get it up. How am I supposed to relax when it’s all I think about?**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**3/17/92**

**Thank fuck. No orgasm, but at least I woke with a semi-erection.**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**3/18/92**

**Two in two days!!!!! Things are looking up. Ha! Ha!**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**3/19/92**

**Ladies and gentlemen, we have a hat trick!**  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**3/23/92**

**It’s Dennis’ birthday and I have a special gift for him. I’m excited, which is both amusing and kind of embarrassing. I can't believe I'm counting down the hours until he gets home. I have a feeling tonight is going to be REALLY special because I think I’m ready … I think it’s time to show him how much I love him.**

**I think I’m cured.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Booker continued to stare at the final line for several minutes before closing the notebook and tossing it onto the bed. There was no denying it; he had screwed up big time. His selfishness had blinded him to the emotional turmoil of Tom’s recovery and he felt like a complete jerk. He had wallowed in his own egotistical discontentment when he should have offered his friend the support he needed to get through his therapy. Instead of avoiding him, he should have been there to celebrate each small step of his recovery and it was only after reading the journal that he realized he was the one responsible for the growing distance between them, not Tom. There was no denying it; he had failed his friend when he had needed him the most.

Standing up, he walked over to the window and kneeling on the narrow mattress, he pulled back the curtain and stared out at the crescent moon sitting high in the night sky. It was obvious by the last few feverishly written journal entries that his friend was no longer suffering from impotence and he felt a pang of regret. Not only had he robbed Tom of the chance to tell him his life-changing news, he had also cost himself the chance to witness the excitement in the dark brown eyes he adored. He had ruined the moment for both of them, and as he watched a cloud slowly hide the moon behind its wispy tendrils, he silently mourned his loss.


	46. Where to Now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Booker continued to stare at the final line for several minutes before closing the notebook and tossing it onto the bed. There was no denying it; he had screwed up big time. His selfishness had blinded him to the emotional turmoil of Tom’s recovery and he felt like a complete jerk. He had wallowed in his own egotistical discontentment when he should have offered his friend the support he needed to get through his therapy. Instead of avoiding him, he should have been there to celebrate each small step of his recovery and it was only after reading the journal that he realized he was the one responsible for the growing distance between them, not Tom. There was no denying it; he had failed his friend when he had needed him the most._
> 
> _Standing up, he walked over to the window and kneeling on the narrow mattress, he pulled back the curtain and stared out at the crescent moon sitting high in the night sky. It was obvious by the last few feverishly written journal entries that his friend was no longer suffering from impotence and he felt a pang of regret. Not only had he robbed Tom of the chance to tell him his life-changing news, he had also cost himself the chance to witness the excitement in the dark brown eyes he adored. He had ruined the moment for both of them, and as he watched a cloud slowly hide the moon behind its wispy tendrils, he silently mourned his loss._   
> 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35938728216/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Monday March 23rd, 1992 (11.22 p.m.)** _

Booker silently opened the bedroom door and stared out into the dimly lit living room. Tom’s face peeked out from beneath a swaddle of covers, the flickering light of the TV screen illuminating his pale skin as he stared transfixed at the small television. A middle-aged woman with bright red lips and an eighties bouffant hairdo read the late-night news, but the sound was too low for Booker to hear what she was saying. However, her expression was a mask of solemnity, and he quickly realized she was reporting on the aftermath of the US Air flight to Cleveland that had crashed on takeoff at LaGuardia the day before. When he thought of the families of the victims, a deep sadness filled his heart, and it emphasized the miracle of Tom’s existence. He had come frighteningly close to losing the man he loved in a filthy warehouse only ten months before, and the realization sent a shiver of thankfulness throughout his body. The devastating images of the crash site exemplified how truly lucky he was to have Tom in his life, and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was responsible for saving his friend’s life. It was the reality check he needed, and as he stood undetected in the doorway, staring at his friend’s gaunt face, he knew he could not let him go. Theirs was a love story unlike any other; spanning years and taking them both on a roller coaster ride of the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. But his over cautiousness had almost cost him the one person he loved most in the world, and it was time to make amends or live with his regret forever.

He slowly counted to ten and after inhaling several deep, calming breaths, he flicked on the light and walked over to the couch. “We need to talk.”

Tom continued to stare at the TV with dull, lifeless eyes. “Do we?” he muttered in a flat voice. “Gee, I can hardly wait.”

In no mood for sarcasm, Booker grabbed Tom’s ankles and forcing his legs off the sofa, he sat down in the vacant space. “Jesus, Tom,” he huffed in exasperation, “How ‘bout you quit being a jerk for once and hear me out.”

Pushing his lower lip into a moody pout, Tom sat up and wrapping the duvet around his shoulders, he glared angrily back at Booker. “Okay, I’m listening. Enlighten me with your words.”

Booker could feel his ire rising, but he was determined to be the bigger man and not let Tom’s acrimonious attitude get the better of him. He carefully studied his friend’s surly expression; the narrowed, suspicious eyes coupled with a sullen pout, and he knew he needed to proceed with caution. He had one go to make things right, and if he lost his temper, there would be no second chance.

An obvious pain shimmered in Tom’s dark eyes as he waited for Booker to speak. His self-esteem was at rock bottom; he felt shunned and ridiculed, and in his eyes, he was subhuman in comparison to his peers, especially compared to Booker. Instead of rejoicing his achievements since starting therapy, he now felt embarrassed, and he wished he had kept his secrets to himself instead of allowing Dennis to read his innermost thoughts. However, he could not turn back time, what was done, was done, and all he could do was wait and see if Booker accepted or rejected him. But in his heart, he was sure he already knew the answer; he was about to be jilted. 

So when a light hand rested on his thigh, he instinctively jerked away, and a flush of humiliation reddened his cheeks. He self-consciously shoved his trembling right hand under the soft folds of the duvet, and in doing so, the comforter slipped from his shoulders, revealing the scars crisscrossing his naked chest. A moment of panic constricted his chest, and he quickly covered his shame as he struggled to inhale a much-needed breath. But in that split second, everything became blindingly apparent. He had been deluding himself. Even though Booker had assured him that the wounds did not matter, he knew differently; he was repulsive, and it was little wonder that the man he loved had shied away from any contact with him. It was his view that every hypertrophic scar told a story because they were a testament to his life; he was a whore, a murderer, a drug addict and a criminal, he was…

“Tom?”

Surprised out of his self-flagellating reverie, Tom’s head jerked upwards and his gaze immediately met two soft brown eyes. “Huh?”

Booker’s brow creased with concern as his worried eyes flitted over Tom’s flushed face. “Shit, Tommy, I never meant to make you feel—”

“Don’t apologize,” Tom interrupted quietly. “I understand why you don’t want to be with me.”

“ _What?”_ Booker exclaimed in astonishment. “Tom, this isn’t about me not wanting to be with you. I fucked up, I admit it, and I should never have made you feel unwanted. But, baby, the only reason I pulled away was because it was so fucking hard being around you and not being _with_ you. Don’t you get it? I wanted you to get well so we could be together, but instead, I behaved like a jerk and—”

“You still want to be with me?” Tom whispered, his eyes widening in surprise. “I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Booker replied hastily, and as the tension in his muscles slowly diminished, his face relaxed into a smile. “Jesus, I’m _so_ proud of you, and I wish I’d told you that sooner. You did what Doctor Li asked, and now you’re no longer… I mean… you can…”

Tom’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, and he wrapped the duvet tighter around his body before casting his eyes to the floor. “I haven’t been able to, you know, I haven’t stayed hard long enough to—”

Booker’s smile slowly transformed into a cheeky, crooked grin and reaching out, he pulled down the duvet’s protective covering, revealing Tom’s naked chest. “Maybe I could help you with that,” he murmured as his gaze roved hungrily over the scarred flesh that was his temple.

The softly spoken words awakened Tom’s cock, and it immediately twitched to attention. However, although arousal stirred within his neglected body, he was instantly wary. As much as he longed for the feel of Booker’s touch against his skin, he did not want pity sex. Also, he was still extremely fearful of penetrative sex, and he did not know how far his friend expected him to go. He was still coping with a conundrum of emotions; many positive, but most still negative and he was terrified that his body would not react to the stimulation. The pressure to perform right there right now had his heart hammering painfully in his chest, and his anxiety levels rose. If he failed, he would never be able to look Booker in the eye again; if he failed, their relationship would be over before it had even begun.

“I—” he choked, but he was unable to finish his sentence as a wave of emotion paralyzed his voice.

When strong arms pulled him into a tight embrace, he did not pull away. Instead, he took comfort from the protectiveness and warmth of the hug and relaxing against Booker’s broad chest, he exhaled a jagged breath.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Booker murmured, the warm breath tickling Tom’s scalp.

Shifting his position, Tom gazed up into Booker’s worried face. “I’m scared.”

Sympathy flashed in Booker’s dark eyes and he immediately regretted his impulsiveness. Once again, he had made the wrong decision, and he began to wonder if he would ever make the _right_ one where Tom was concerned. It appeared no matter how he responded, he always made things worse, and he began to have serious doubts about his motives. Did he want Tom in his life because he loved him or was his purpose purely self-serving? Did he want to help him, or just have sex with him? His reasons seemed clouded even in his own mind, and he had a moment of misgiving. Maybe he should have let sleeping dogs lie after all. 

“Dennis?” Tom whispered, his dark eyes searching Booker’s face. “Did you hear me?”

With a regretful sigh, Booker freed Tom from his embrace and gave him a strained smile. “Yeah, I heard you and I think you’re right. It’s too soon.”

“Because I’m still damaged?” Tom asked in a small voice.

Booker’s lips twitched nervously. “No,” he replied quietly, “because I am.”

Tom’s eyebrows rose in surprise and struggling back into a sitting position, he gave Booker a quizzical look. “I don’t understand.”

For the first time in a very long time, Booker revealed his vulnerability and his shoulders slumped forward as he struggled to articulate his confession. “I don’t think I’ve completely come to terms with what happened to you at the warehouse. When I saw you… shit, Tommy, I thought you were fucking _dead_ , and I swear time really _did_ stand still. I couldn’t breathe, or move, or feel… I think I died for a moment and then Harry said you were alive and… and I was terrified because you were so badly injured. But I pulled it together and went to the hospital, and I was hell bent on staying with you, but then you muttered Mosco’s name and I felt like an intruder. _He_ was the one you wanted, not me—”

“Dennis, I—”

“No, Tommy, let me finish. I need to say this,” Booker interjected. “I thought you didn’t need me, and I dunno, maybe you didn’t, but a part of me still feels guilty for leaving you to recover on your own. And now, I’ve fucked up again. I abandoned you during your therapy because I thought I was doing the right thing. But every time I _think_ I’m doing the right thing it turns out to be the _wrong_ thing. Don’t you see? It’s not just you, _I’m_ part of the same fucking problem and if we jump into bed together, who knows what the hell will happen.”

Tom’s body started to tremble, and he fought to control his emotions. “So, where to now?” he mumbled dejectedly. “If you want me to move out I—”

Booker’s eyes widened in horror. “Baby, no! That’s not what I’m saying! What I _mean_ is… I think maybe I need to go to therapy too.”

The admission was the last thing Tom expected to hear out of Booker's mouth and he stared back in shock. “You’re kidding me? _You_ want to go to therapy with _me?”_

A soft rush of air expelled from Booker’s nostrils and grinning awkwardly, he self-consciously ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “Yeah, I do.”

“Jesus,” Tom muttered as he furiously rubbed his index and middle finger over his upper lip. “I don’t know what to say.”

A nervous laugh sounded from between Booker’s lips. “Just say yes.”

Tom’s expression softened and resting a hand on Booker’s knee, he gave his answer. “Yes.”

**

_**Tuesday March 24th, 1992 (2.36 a.m.)** _

Booker lay on his side staring down at Tom, who was sleeping peacefully on the mattress under the window. His fingers played with his semi-erect cock, expertly teasing it to life as his eyes greedily devoured the intoxicating fullness of Tom’s bowed lips. The exquisiteness of Tom’s features still had the same effect on him as the very first day he had laid eyes on him, and stroking his fingers over his hardening cock, his breathing became jagged. More than anything, he wanted to feel Tom writhing beneath him as he slowly fucked him into a state of blissful euphoria. But he had learned his lesson the hard way and he now knew that patience had its virtues and he was doing the right thing by keeping their relationship platonic. If he and Tom could both excise their inner demons, they had a better chance of maintaining a healthy sexual relationship when the time was right. He knew it would be difficult, he was not one to talk openly about his feelings. He had built a defensive wall many years before to protect himself against the homophobia he had experienced in high school, and it would take a skilled psychologist to break down the barrier. But he had trust in Doctor Li. Tom had made incredible advancements with his recovery after only a few short months, and he was certain that in time, his friend would be able to live a life free of fear and self-loathing. It would not happen overnight, but it would happen, they just needed to stay focused.

Coating his fingers in the precum bubbling from his slit, he wrapped his hand around his shaft and started to jerk off. An excited gasp of pleasure escaped from between his lips, and as his fist pumped faster, he could feel his orgasm rising. He knew he would not last long, and his gaze traveled hungrily down the length of Tom’s duvet-swathed body before resting on the outline of his curved buttocks. Although the imagery of Tom's sleeping form was strictly, G-rated, it was enough to push him over the edge and with a strangled cry, he climaxed forcefully over his fingers.

A post-climactic calmness enveloped his body and rolling onto his back, he gazed up at the ceiling and slowly regulated his breathing. His twenty-sixth birthday had proven to be much more than just a celebration of his birth; it was an important turning point in his life, it was a celebration of everything that was to come.


	47. The Long Kiss Goodnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tuesday March 24th, 1992 (2.36 a.m.)_
> 
> _Booker lay on his side staring down at Tom, who was sleeping peacefully on the mattress under the window. His fingers played with his semi-erect cock, expertly teasing it to life as his eyes greedily devoured the intoxicating fullness of Tom’s bowed lips. The exquisiteness of Tom’s features still had the same effect on him as the very first day he had laid eyes on him, and stroking his fingers over his hardening cock, his breathing became jagged. More than anything, he wanted to feel Tom writhing beneath him as he slowly fucked him into a state of blissful euphoria. But he had learned his lesson the hard way and he now knew that patience had its virtues and he was doing the right thing by keeping their relationship platonic. If he and Tom could both exercise their inner demons, they had a better chance of maintaining a healthy sexual relationship when the time was right. He knew it would be difficult, he was not one to talk openly about his feelings. He had built a defensive wall many years before to protect himself against the homophobia he had experienced in high school, and it would take a skilled psychologist to break down the barrier. But he had trust in Doctor Li. Tom had made incredible advancements with his recovery after only a few short months, and he was certain that in time, his friend would be able to live a life free of fear and self-loathing. It would not happen overnight, but it would happen, they just needed to stay focused._
> 
> _Coating his fingers in the precum bubbling from his slit, he wrapped his hand around his shaft and started to jerk off. An excited gasp of pleasure escaped from between his lips, and as his fist pumped faster, he could feel his orgasm rising. He knew he would not last long, and his gaze traveled hungrily down the length of Tom’s duvet-swathed body before resting on the outline of his curved buttocks. Although the imagery of Tom's sleeping form was strictly, G-rated, it was enough to push him over the edge and with a strangled cry, he climaxed forcefully over his fingers._
> 
> _A post-climactic calmness enveloped his body and rolling onto his back, he gazed up at the ceiling and slowly regulated his breathing. His twenty-sixth birthday had proven to be much more than just a celebration of his birth; it was an important turning point in his life, it was a celebration of everything that was to come._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35591311710/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Eleven weeks later - Monday June 8th 1992 (5.36 p.m.)** _

Doctor Daquan Li pushed his notes to one side and gave Dennis a piercing stare. “Tom tells me you’ve recently taken the next step towards achieving a full sexual relationship. Is that right?”

Even though Booker had attended over a dozen therapy sessions (both with Tom and without), he still found the experience extremely uncomfortable, and he cringed inwardly at the question. He was a private person by nature, and discussing his feelings with a stranger was not easy. The intense psychological examination was new territory for him, and it had him stepping outside his comfort zone and leaping feet first into the unwelcome state of vulnerability and agitation. Although he had known all along that the therapy sessions would not be a walk in the park, he had never imagined how truly invasive they would be. However, he also knew it was the only way he and Tom would ever move forward in their relationship and so far, it was working. Their relationship had gradually progressed to gentle caresses and tender kisses, and they were both a lot happier within themselves. But his inner joy did not prevent him from instinctively feeling judged by Li, and his belligerent attitude often came to the fore during their meetings.

Therefore, with the feel of the doctor’s accusatory gaze increasing his discomfort, he slouched down in his seat. He could sense he was about to take the blame for his and Tom’s relationship and sticking his legs straight out in front of him, he folded his arms defensively across his chest. “So?” he muttered, his lower lip pushing into a sullen pout. “A few kisses never hurt anyone.”

Li leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers under his chin. “Do you think Tom’s ready to have a sexual relationship with you?”

Booker slouched further down in his chair and rubbed a self-conscious hand over the back of his neck. “I dunno, I think so, I mean, I see the way he looks at me—”

“The wants of the flesh are not necessarily the wants of the mind, Dennis,” Doctor Li interjected.

Heat flamed Booker’s cheeks and sitting upright, he narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth together. “Do you think I’m pushing him? Is that it?” he growled.

“Do _you_ think you’re pushing him?” Doctor Li counteracted with a serene smile.

“Jesus,” Booker muttered, “Don’t you ever give a straight answer?” He could feel the beginnings of a headache thumping at his temples and glancing at the wall clock, he desperately willed the hour to pass.

Unfazed by Booker’s uncooperative attitude, Li posed another question. “What do you see when you look at Tom?” 

Surprised by the question, Booker once again went on the defensive. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

Li stared back with unwavering scrutiny. “It isn’t a trick question, Dennis, just answer honestly. _What_ do you see when you look at Tom?”

With his cheeks burning red, Booker nervously wiped the sweat from his palms on his denim-clad legs. “I dunno, he’s beautiful, like _strikingly_ beautiful. Since Doug’s death, there’s a glimmer of vulnerability that lies just below the surface that never used to be there. But he’s also incredibly stubborn and strong-minded, like me and I guess that’s why we fight so much. I s’pose you could say he’s kinda complicated, but that’s what makes him so appealing. He’s unpredictable, which can be frustrating, but it also makes life interesting, you know?”

A slow smile played over Doctor Li’s lips. “And the scars?”

Booker’s brow furrowed into a confused frown. “What about them?”

“Do they bother you?” Li inquired in a forthright manner.

Booker stared back unwaveringly. “No, they don’t. I get angry ‘cause of what those assholes did to him, but they don’t bother me. Mostly, I don’t see them, ‘cause when I look at Tom, I just see, you know, Tom.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Li’s professional façade slipped for a fraction of a moment, and his face relaxed into a sincere smile. “You’re a good man, Dennis. A little arrogant, but a good man. Just make sure you let Tom set the pace. Okay?”

Somewhat surprised by Li’s statement, Booker’s lips twitched at the edges, and he returned a tight-lipped smile. “Trust me, Doc, the last thing I want to do is cause Tom any more pain.”

Li nodded, the stoic mask of professionalism replacing his smile. “Then I’ll see you and Tom next week.”

“Yeah,” Booker replied quietly, and getting to his feet, he put on his leather jacket. “See you next week.”

**

_**Tuesday June 9th 1992 (9.18 p.m.)** _

With a weary grunt, Booker shifted the bags of groceries in his arms and kicked his apartment door closed with his foot. He had planned to be home early so he could take Tom out to dinner as a birthday surprise, but as usual, work had ruined his plans. When he had rung Tom and explained that he would be home late, he had expected him to react moodily, but instead, he had received a sympathetic response. It was a sign that their relationship was now on stable footing. Tom was more open about his feelings, and they argued less about the trivialities of everyday life; they were, slowly but surely, moving forward.

Flicking on the light, he carried the bags over to the kitchenette and placed them on the counter. He had offered to bring home Chinese food, but Tom had politely refused, citing a headache and the need for an early night. It had disappointed him to know he would miss the chance to spoil Tom on his birthday, but he hoped the small gift he had left on the coffee table had at least helped make his friend feel special. He knew his and Harry’s cards were the only ones Tom would receive, which was why he had planned to take him out to dinner. However, life had a habit of throwing out the odd curveball, and the only saving grace was that Tom had taken the news well. 

But when he had opened the door and found the apartment bathed in darkness, he had experienced a moment of disappointment. He had hoped to salvage the night by enjoying a couple of celebratory drinks with Tom, but it appeared the birthday boy had stuck to his word and had decided on an early night.

With a weary sigh, he poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and drained a third of the amber fluid in one gulp. Kicking off his boots, he sauntered over to the bedroom and silently opened the door. The waning gibbous moon shining through the window outlined Tom’s body beneath the duvet and Booker's legs trembled as a shiver of longing surged through his veins, heating his blood in all the right places. But after his recent session with Doctor Li, he knew he needed to show restraint. He took the therapist’s advice seriously, and he now understood it was not prudent for him to initiate contact, no matter how difficult it was to hold back. Tom needed time, and all he could hope was that one day, his friend would feel comfortable enough to take the next step towards achieving a full sexual relationship.

As though reading his thoughts, Tom’s soft voice sounded from beneath the covers. “Aren't you gonna kiss me goodnight?”

A full body tremor shuddered throughout Booker’s body and closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. Kisses were dangerous territory, but he was mature enough not to let his desires take over and opening his eyes, he smiled tenderly. “Is your headache better?”

Tom sat up and ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. “It is now,” he murmured softly, a drowsy smile tilting his lips in an appealing manner, and pulling back the duvet, his eyes sparkled in the soft moonlight. “But I think I’d feel even better if you gave me a cuddle.”

The dangerous territory was rapidly turning into treacherous terrain, but at that precise moment, all of Booker's good intentions flew out the window and suddenly, he did not care. Moving forward, he lay down on the narrow mattress next to Tom and pulled him into his arms. “Happy birthday, baby,” he whispered against Tom’s mouth.

“Mmm,” Tom murmured, and slipping his tongue between the parted lips, he lovingly explored the whiskey-flavored sweetness of Dennis' mouth.

Heat flared in Booker’s testicles and pushing Tom onto his back, he increased the passion of the kiss. But when warm fingers grasped his hand and guided it downwards towards the _danger zone,_ he rolled onto his side and broke contact.

“Whoa, Tommy, I think we should stop,” he gasped, his warm breath tickling Tom’s kiss-swollen lips.

Tom peppered soft kisses against his lover’s lips. “Don’t wanna,” he breathed and pulling Booker closer, he ground his hardening cock against his hip. "I wanna play."

Although Booker's cock was telling him to shut the fuck up and give Tom what he wanted, his conscience won over and pulling away, his brow knitted into a worried frown. “Shit, Tommy, are you sure? ‘Cause I don’t want Doctor Li thinking I forced—”

“Fuck Doctor Li,” Tom panted and grasping Booker’s hand again, he rubbed it against his hardening cock. “I'm horny and I can't do it on my own. It's been four months since I first got an erection, but I still haven't had an orgasm. I _need_ you, Dennis, I need you to help me come.”

Pulling his hand away, Booker sat up, his dark eyes searching his lover’s face for answers. “ _Need_ me or _love_ me?” he asked quietly. “Because if you’re just using me to get off—”

Pushing up onto his elbows, Tom’s eyes widened in surprise. “Is _that_ what you think?”

Booker immediately avoided Tom’s incredulous stare. Instead, he averted his gaze to a discarded jumble of clothing heaped into a pile in the corner of the room. “I dunno,” he muttered despondently. “Should I?”

“Of course not!” Tom exclaimed loudly. “Jesus, Dennis, after everything we’ve been through, how could you think that?”

Although he desperately wanted to believe, a flicker of uncertainty showed in Booker’s eyes and shifting his gaze, he stared down at Tom. “Do you love me?” he asked candidly.

It was a serious question, but Tom could not suppress the mischievous smile that twitched at his lips. “Depends.”

The answer was not what Booker had expected, and he clenched and unclenched his jaw, which was a telltale sign that he was struggling internally. “On?” he finally croaked.

Tom’s dark eyes flashed roguishly, and he waggled his eyebrows for added effect. “On whether you love me too.”

It took Booker a moment to realize Tom was teasing him and with a growl, he punched him playfully in the arm. “Asshole.”

Grinning cheekily, Tom placed a hand behind Booker’s neck and pulling him forward, he placed a tender kiss on his pouting lips. “How could you ever doubt me?” he breathed as he playfully nipped and sucked at the soft, inviting flesh. “I love you more than life itself.”

Touched by the confession, Booker’s eyes shone with emotion and lifting his lover’s trembling hand, he tenderly pressed his lips against the palm. “I’m pretty sure I love you more,” he murmured against the warm skin. “But I’m not gonna waste time arguing the point.”

Tom’s tongue flicked enticingly over his lips and lying back down, his pupils dilated into dark pools of desire. “Play with me,” he whispered.

With a low moan of excitement, Booker ducked his head and sucked at the taut flesh of Tom’s throat. He felt an animalistic need to mark his lover as his own, and as his mouth expertly drew blood to the surface, his teeth lightly nipped at the sweet smelling skin beneath his lips, leaving a large red hickey in his wake. Trailing a hand down his lover’s chest, he latched onto a nipple and rolling the small raised nub between his fingers, he nuzzled against Tom’s neck. “Talk to me,” he breathed against the warm flesh. “Tell me what you want.”

The soft, lilting words heightened Tom’s arousal, and his body squirmed with excited anticipation of what was to come. “I wanna feel your lips around me,” he moaned, his long fingers pulling at the tousled strands of Booker’s dark hair. “I wanna come in your mouth.”

A shiver of longing ran down the entire length of Booker’s body, and his mouth immediately began a slow exploration of Tom’s torso. He rained soft kisses over the scarred flesh, taking his time to sweep his tongue over the hard ridges that were now as much a part of his lover as the unique pattern of freckles and moles that adorned his body. He could feel Tom’s cock moving against him, swelling and hardening with every kiss he peppered over his neglected flesh and he smiled against the warm, pulsating body beneath him. Tom was going through a process of rebirth and he was the doctor, coaxing his deadened flesh back to life.

When his lips reached the waistband of Tom’s boxers, his smile broadened and after hesitating for a moment, his teeth toyed with the puckered material. But the pressure of Tom’s hands pushing his head downwards soon had him continuing his journey towards discovery and moving lower down the mattress, he lightly mouthed over the soft cotton concealing his lover’s erection.

Heavy breathing echoed throughout the small room, and when Tom spoke, his voice trembled with a high level of urgency. “I’m so hard, Dennis. Oh God, I’m _sooo_ hard.”

Not wanting Tom to climax before he had a chance to take him into his mouth and taste him, Dennis abandoned his playful teasing and sitting up, he gazed down tenderly at the man he adored. “Do you want me to suck you, baby? Is that what you want?” he purred.

Tom’s black eyes flashed with arousal. “ _Yesss,_ ” he hissed and lifting his buttocks off the mattress, he impatiently shoved down his boxers, revealing his enormous erection. “I can’t last much longer, Dennis, suck me!”

Without wasting any more time, Booker gently wrapped his fingers around the base of Tom’s cock and lowering his head, he flicked out his tongue and licked the glistening precum from the tip. When the salty fluid mixed with his saliva, a burst of flavor exploded in his mouth and the familiar tang instantly hardened his cock. But he ignored the growing need to touch himself and instead, he concentrated on giving Tom what he so desperately needed.

The silky tendrils of Dennis’ breath tickled the sensitive flesh of Tom’s cockhead and thrusting his hips off the mattress, he entwined his fingers in his lover’s dark hair. “Again,” he moaned, his head arching back against the pillow. “Oh, Dennis, do it again.”

Darting out his tongue, Booker moistened his lips before pressing them against the smoothness of Tom’s cockhead and sucking gently. 

Tom’s eyes fluttered closed and his hips continued to thrust off the bed. “ _Ahhh,_ ” he exhaled through parted lips. “More, I need more.”

The trembling fervor in Tom’s voice sent a shiver of excitement down Booker’s spine and raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. His boy was cured and he was about to experience his first orgasm in over twelve months. “Are you ready, baby?” he crooned and without waiting for an answer, he took Tom’s cock into his mouth and ran his lips up and down the full length.

Tom’s hips thrust forward and his finger’s yanked at Booker’s hair, twisting it at the roots. “YES!” he yelled and settling into a steady rhythm, he pumped his cock in and out of Booker’s willing mouth. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…”

Booker opened his throat and allowed Tom to fuck his mouth. The saliferous flavor coating his tongue intensified, signaling that his lover was close and pressing his lips tightly against the hard shaft filling his mouth, he began to hum.

The light vibrations pulsating against Tom’s sensitive cockhead had the desired effect and with an ecstatic cry, his orgasm shot forth and with a full body shudder, he rammed his cock deep into Booker’s moist mouth. 

Warm semen flooded the back of Booker’s throat and swallowing deeply, he shivered as the intoxicating flavor awakened his taste buds. Never before had a lover climaxed so forcefully into his mouth, and as the sapidity escalated he felt his own orgasm rising and without any stimulation, he ejaculated.

Shocked and surprised by the abruptness of his orgasm, he gently released Tom’s cock from his mouth and sitting up, he stared down at the wet patch on the front of his jeans. “Shit.”

A soft chuckle resonated from below him and looking down, he smiled when he saw the relief and tranquility in Tom’s eyes. “I guess we both kinda needed that,” he laughed.

Tom reached out his hand and ran a light finger over the damp spot on Booker’s jeans. “I never got the chance to touch you,” he lamented softly, his lower lip pushing into an endearing pout.

Booker leaned forward and brushed his lips over the soft flesh. “I haven’t finished with you yet,” he breathed. “That was just the beginning; we’ve got the rest of our lives to get to know each other again.”

Even though he had just experienced one of the most explosive orgasms of his life, a shiver of foreboding brought goose bumps to the surface of Tom’s warm flesh, extinguishing his inner peace. The thought of penetrative sex still terrified him, but he knew Booker would only be content with oral for so long. One day, the dark haired officer was going to expect more… much more.

Forcing a fake smile to his lips, he struggled to control his rising panic. “Yeah,” he replied quietly, the evidence of the lie he was about to tell flashing fleetingly in his dark eyes. “I can’t wait.”


	48. Ghosts from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: The trembling fervor in Tom’s voice sent a shiver of excitement down Booker’s spine and raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. His boy was cured and he was about to experience his first orgasm in over twelve months. “Are you ready, baby?” he crooned and without waiting for an answer, he took Tom’s cock into his mouth and ran his lips up and down the full length._
> 
> _Tom’s hips thrust forward and his finger’s yanked at Booker’s hair, twisting it at the roots. “YES!” he yelled and settling into a steady rhythm, he pumped his cock in and out of Booker’s willing mouth. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…”_
> 
> _Booker opened his throat and allowed Tom to fuck his mouth. The saliferous flavor coating his tongue intensified, signaling that his lover was close and pressing his lips tightly against the hard shaft filling his mouth, he began to hum._
> 
> _The light vibrations pulsating against Tom’s sensitive cockhead had the desired effect and with an ecstatic cry, his orgasm shot forth and with a full body shudder, he rammed his cock deep into Booker’s moist mouth._
> 
> _Warm semen flooded the back of Booker’s throat and swallowing deeply, he shivered as the intoxicating flavor awakened his taste buds. Never before had a lover climaxed so forcefully into his mouth, and as the sapidity escalated he felt his own orgasm rising and without any stimulation, he ejaculated._
> 
> _Shocked and surprised by the abruptness of his orgasm, he gently released Tom’s cock from his mouth and sitting up, he stared down at the wet patch on the front of his jeans. “Shit.”_
> 
> _A soft chuckle resonated from below him and looking down, he smiled when he saw the relief and tranquility in Tom’s eyes. “I guess we both kinda needed that,” he laughed._
> 
> _Tom reached out his hand and ran a light finger over the damp spot on Booker’s jeans. “I never got the chance to touch you,” he lamented softly, his lower lip pushing into an endearing pout._
> 
> _Booker leaned forward and brushed his lips over the soft flesh. “I haven’t finished with you yet,” he breathed. “That was just the beginning; we’ve got the rest of our lives to get to know each other again.”_
> 
> _Even though he had just experienced one of the most explosive orgasms of his life, a shiver of foreboding brought goose bumps to the surface of Tom’s warm flesh, extinguishing his inner peace. The thought of penetrative sex still terrified him, but he knew Booker would only be content with oral for so long. One day, the dark haired officer was going to expect more… much more._
> 
> _Forcing a fake smile to his lips, he struggled to control his rising panic. “Yeah,” he replied quietly, the evidence of the lie he was about to tell flashing fleetingly in his dark eyes. “I can’t wait.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35140381564/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday June 10th, 1992 (7.09 a.m.)** _

Sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window, the harsh rays shining directly onto Booker’s face. Moaning loudly, he circled an arm protectively over his head and rolled over on the narrow mattress. His body immediately came into contact with Tom and opening his eyes, he lowered his arm and smiled sleepily as he studied his lover’s tranquil face. Minutes passed, but when Tom’s bowed lips expelled a soft rush of air, he could no longer remain a silent observer and leaning forward, he pressed his mouth against his lover’s ear. “Wake up, beautiful.”

Tom’s eyes fluttered open, and a slow, lazy smile twitched at his lips, softening his features. The sight was so endearing, Booker found himself falling in love all over again. His stomach flip-flopped with hot desire, and his gaze remained drawn to Tom’s heavily lidded eyes. He was still in awe of the man lying next to him and he could not believe how lucky he was to have him in his life.

Embarrassed by the close scrutiny, a self-conscious blush colored Tom’s cheeks, and he rubbed a shaky hand over his sleep-tousled hair. “Why are you staring at me?” he mumbled sleepily through full, pouty lips.

“Because you’re so damn gorgeous,” Booker replied with a salacious glint in his eyes and draping an arm over Tom’s narrow waist, he cupped his buttock and gave it a playful squeeze. “Wanna fool around before I go to work?”

The sensation of strong fingers gripping his naked backside awakened Tom’s memories of his vicious assault and his body instantly stiffened. Panic squeezed his heart, and his blood pounded loudly in his ears, blocking out the sound of Booker’s voice. Drawing in a ragged, sobbing breath, his wide eyes filled with terror. He felt trapped and all he wanted to do was break free to a place of solitude and shelter.

Without warning, he suddenly unleashed his fear in an eruption of violent emotion. “LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!” he screamed and lashing out with his arms, he frantically struggled out of Booker’s hold and tumbled backward onto the floor. Confused by fear, he quickly scrambled across the room on his hands and knees to the protective corner behind the door, where he immediately drew his knees to his chest and protectively wrapped his arms around his legs. Moments later, he began to rock back and forth, his frightened eyes staring sightlessly out in front of him as his memories blinded him to reality.

Shocked by the severity of Tom’s reaction, Booker’s gaze remained transfixed on his terrified face. “Shit!” he exclaimed, and running a trembling hand through his hair, he wondered what he should do. It was during the moment of indecision that he suddenly understood why Doctor Li had been so averse to their affair, and he wished he had taken the therapist’s advice more seriously. If he had known Tom would react with such terror, he never would have initiated contact. But the emotion of the moment had distracted him from the harsh reality of his and Tom’s complicated relationship, and he had not paused long enough to assess the consequences of his actions. Now, because of his recklessness, both he and Tom were paying the price. He had fucked everything up and he only had himself to blame.

As he watched Tom continue his ritualistic rocking, Booker knew he needed to act quickly and rescue him from his fugue-like state. However, he was terrified of making the situation worse and so he pondered on the best way to proceed. If he approached Tom, he ran the risk of exacerbating the situation, but if he left him sitting in the corner swaying like a small, distressed child, in all likelihood, he would descend into a deeper psychosis. At that moment, neither option seemed appealing, but being a man of action, he eventually settled on the proactive solution and taking a deep breath, he crawled from the mattress.

“Tommy,” he murmured softly as he slowly inched across the floor toward his lover. “Tommy, it’s Dennis. Everything’s okay, baby. I’m sorry I frightened you, but you’re safe, baby and I promise you, no one’s going to hurt you. Not now, not ever.”

It took several minutes for Booker’s voice to register in Tom’s addled mind. But eventually, his clouded gaze cleared and he blinked rapidly several times before speaking in a detached voice that was eerily reminiscent of the first time Booker had seen him at the diner. “I don’t like being touched there,” he said, by way of explanation.

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry,” Booker replied in a pacifying tone and sitting cross-legged in front of Tom, he exhaled a heavy sigh. “I guess I thought everything was okay because of last night.”

A look of guilt immediately flashed across Tom’s face and he began to chew fretfully at his lower lip. “I led you on,” he whispered, his dark eyes filling with anguish. “Oh, God, I’m _so_ fucking sorry.”

Troubled by Tom’s apology, Booker reached out and laid a comforting hand on his knee. “No, _I’m_ sorry. This was _my_ fault, Tommy, not yours. Doctor Li told me to let you set the pace and I should have listened to him. It’ll never happen again, I promise.”

A single tear trickled down Tom’s pale cheek and lifting his gaze, he stared into Booker’s worried eyes. “And what sort of relationship is that?” he whispered in a trembling voice. “ _I’m_ too afraid to be touched and _you’re_ too afraid to touch me. How the hell is _that_ gonna work? It’s so fucking screwed up.”

Booker shifted his position so he was sitting next to Tom, and placing a comforting arm around him, he gave his shoulders a tight squeeze. “It’ll work ‘cause we want it to work,” he replied softly, “and we’ll speak to Doctor Li together and get his advice. But, Tommy, I don’t care if we _never_ have a full sexual relationship, I just want you in my life, okay?”

Resting his head against Booker’s shoulder, Tom closed his eyes and exhaled a weary sigh. “Why are you so good to me, when all I’ve ever done is cause you pain?”

“Simple,” Booker replied with a smile. “I love you.”

Tom snuggled in close, drawing comfort from the warmth of Booker’s body and tilting up his chin, he gazed up at him with sad eyes. “I love you too, Dennis, I really do. It’s just… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to have sex with you.”

Although he had told Tom, it did not bother him, hearing the words said out loud made the reality more tangible and a shiver of regret mixed with sadness tingled Booker’s skin. He loved Tom with all his heart, but he was starting to wonder if he could actually make the ultimate sacrifice for him. The thought of never making love to another human being again was terrifying in its finality and he wondered if he could stay faithful in a relationship devoid of penetrative sex. However, he had a dogged determination that made giving up impossible and he decided to wait and see what happened. It was early days and Tom was still receiving extensive therapy. All he could hope was that one day, they would achieve what they both desired.

Placing his lips against Tom’s furrowed brow, he kissed him lovingly. “I _told_ you, it doesn’t matter. One day at a time, okay?”

Tom’s expression visibly relaxed and he managed a small smile. “Okay,” he replied softly, unaware that Booker’s words were nothing more than a comforting lie.

**

_**One month later - Wednesday July 8th, 1992 (5.21 p.m.)** _

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat and focused his gaze on Doctor Li’s left ear. Once again, they were discussing his rape at the warehouse and once again, he wished they were talking about something else. The memories were still so vivid and he was unable to come to terms with the embarrassment and shame he felt. He had followed Ana like a sheep to the slaughterhouse and although part of him blamed Mosco, he also blamed himself for being so trusting. Once upon a time, he had been a first-class cop who relied on his instincts. But drugs had dulled his once perceptive senses, leaving him vulnerable to the lies and deception that rolled off the tongues of the unscrupulous. It was a valuable yet difficult lesson to learn because he continually questioned peoples’ motives, including Booker’s and by doing so, he remained imprisoned within a cloud of suspicion. He _wanted_ to believe Booker when he told him sex did not matter. But a tiny voice inside his head continued to mock him, telling him that _of course_ it mattered and if he did not submit fully to his lover, he would lose him forever.

Doctor Li’s voice interrupted his thoughts and his gaze fleetingly made eye contact before returning to the fascinating contours of the therapist’s ear. “Huh?”

The psychologist successfully controlled his frustration and repeated his question. “Why are you reluctant to let Dennis touch your buttocks?”

A hot flush reddened Tom’s cheeks and he shifted awkwardly in his chair. “I… um… it reminds me of when they… you know… when they raped me with the tire iron.”

“Did somebody grip your buttocks while you were being raped? Is that where the association lies?” Doctor Li asked impassively. 

Tom furiously rubbed a hand over his upper lip. “Yeah… I mean… I was suspended from the ceiling by my hands and… um… my body kept swaying so one of the guys stood in front of me and held me by my… by my butt cheeks, you know, so I wouldn’t move.” He swallowed deeply before giving a wry smile. “I guess it made it easier for them to keep the tire iron inserted.”

Li had the grace to look uncomfortable before continuing his questioning. “So, when Dennis touches you there, you immediately have visual flashbacks of the rape?”

“Yeah, I s’pose you could say that.”

“Well, do you, or don’t you?”

“I dunno, it’s hard to explain ‘cause—”

“There’s nothing _hard_ about it, Tom. Either you have flashbacks or you—”

“OKAY, I DON’T! I DON’T!” Tom yelled, his face twisting in pain. “THEY’RE NOT FLASHBACKS, THEY’RE FEELINGS! FEELINGS THAT MAKE ME PANIC ‘CAUSE I FEEL TRAPPED AND IT HURT SO FUCKING MUCH AND NO ONE CAME TO SAVE ME! I WAS THERE ALL ALONE AND NO ONE CAME TO SAVE ME! WHY DIDN’T HE COME TO SAVE ME? WHY DIDN’T HE LOVE ME ENOUGH TO SAVE ME? WHY DIDN'T…”

A loud, racking sob rolled through his body like a wave and drawing his legs up, he buried his head against his chest and curling into a protective ball, he started to cry. He was physically shaking from emotional exhaustion and he felt incapable of continuing with the cross-examination. So when a gentle hand rested on his shoulder, he instinctively recoiled from the touch. L-Leave me a-alone,” he hiccupped.

Ignoring Tom’s plea, Doctor Li pulled up a chair and sat down. He had just made a significant breakthrough and he was determined to keep pushing. “When you say _he_ didn’t love you enough to save you, do you mean Mosco or Dennis?

Tom lifted his head and swiped at his streaming nose with the back of his hand. “What difference does it make?” he snapped. “No one came, so I suffered alone. Nothing can change that.”

“Yes, you did,” Li replied softly, “and I’m sorry you had to experience such a brutal assault. But it’s my job to help you come to terms with what happened so you can live a life free from fear. I’ve seen you and Dennis together and I _know_ your love is the real deal. But if you want your relationship to move forward, you need to be honest with yourself. Do you blame Dennis for not rescuing you until _after_ the rape?”

A single tear leaked from the corner of Tom’s eye. “Yes.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Li pressed forward. “So you blame him even though you weren’t in contact and he had no way of knowing you were at the warehouse until Mosco made the phone call?”

Sniffing loudly, Tom nodded his head. “Yes.”

Resting back in his chair, Li narrowed his eyes. “So it’s Dennis’ fault you were raped?” 

The question took Tom by surprise and he stared at the therapist with wide eyes. “No! I mean… Jesus, I don’t know. Maybe if he hadn’t abandoned me in prison, things would have been different.”

Li hesitated for a moment before delivering his counterargument. “And maybe if you hadn’t succumbed to Mosco’s advances, you wouldn’t have been duped into meeting Ana.”

Tom’s body stiffened and he stared at the therapist with disbelieving eyes. “Are you saying it’s _my_ fault I was raped?” he asked incredulously.

With a patient smile, Li shook his head. “Of course not. But it’s not Dennis’ fault either. You could proportion some of the blame to Mosco, but ultimately, the only people responsible are the ones who committed the act.”

When Tom remained silent, he continued with his analysis. “Rape isn't about sex, Tom, it's about power and punishment, and in your case, it was both. You can’t ignore the facts. Ana wanted to hurt you because you killed her husband, but she also wanted to prove her ranking as Jefa. Also, if Dennis had known what was going to happen to you, he would have done everything in his power to prevent it and deep down, you know that to be true. In my opinion, although you wish Dennis had saved you, the _real_ reason behind your reluctance to have sex with him is you’re self-sabotaging your relationship because you don’t think you’re worthy of his love.”

It was a light bulb moment for Tom and his brow knitted into a deep frown as he processed the information. “Shit, do you really think so?” he muttered, not daring to believe. He stared at the floor for several moments before raising his head and asking the obvious question. “But how do I get past these feelings? I mean, I physically freeze if Dennis touches me on the ass. How do I stop that from happening?”

A slow smile played over Li’s lips and leaning forward, he rested a hand on Tom's knee and stared into his grief-stricken eyes. “You need to believe in his love.”


	49. Nunc Scio Quid Sit Amor (Now I Know What Love Is)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Ignoring Tom’s plea, Doctor Li pulled up a chair and sat down. He had just made a significant breakthrough and he was determined to keep pushing. “When you say he didn’t love you enough to save you, do you mean Mosco or Dennis?_
> 
> _Tom lifted his head and swiped at his streaming nose with the back of his hand. “What difference does it make?” he snapped. “No one came, so I suffered alone. Nothing can change that.”_
> 
> _“Yes, you did,” Li replied softly, “and I’m sorry you had to experience such a brutal assault. But it’s my job to help you come to terms with what happened so you can live a life free from fear. I’ve seen you and Dennis together and I know your love is the real deal. But if you want your relationship to move forward, you need to be honest with yourself. Do you blame Dennis for not rescuing you until after the rape?”_
> 
> _A single tear leaked from the corner of Tom’s eye. “Yes.”_
> 
> _Leaning forward in his chair, Li pressed forward. “So you blame him even though you weren’t in contact and he had no way of knowing you were at the warehouse until Mosco made the phone call?”_
> 
> _Sniffing loudly, Tom nodded his head. “Yes.”_
> 
> _Resting back in his chair, Li narrowed his eyes. “So it’s Dennis’ fault you were raped?”_
> 
> _The question took Tom by surprise and he stared at the therapist with wide eyes. “No! I mean… Jesus, I don’t know. Maybe if he hadn’t abandoned me in prison, things would have been different.”_
> 
> _Li hesitated for a moment before delivering his counterargument. “And maybe if you hadn’t succumbed to Mosco’s advances, you wouldn’t have been duped into meeting Ana.”_
> 
> _Tom’s body stiffened and he stared at the therapist with disbelieving eyes. “Are you saying it’s my fault I was raped?” he asked incredulously._
> 
> _With a patient smile, Li shook his head. “Of course not. But it’s not Dennis’ fault either. You could proportion some of the blame to Mosco, but ultimately, the only people responsible are the ones who committed the act.”_
> 
> _When Tom remained silent, he continued with his analysis. “Rape isn't about sex, Tom, it's about power and punishment, and in your case, it was both. You can’t ignore the facts. Ana wanted to hurt you because you killed her husband, but she also wanted to prove her ranking as Jefa. Also, if Dennis had known what was going to happen to you, he would have done everything in his power to prevent it and deep down, you know that to be true. In my opinion, although you wish Dennis had saved you, the real reason behind your reluctance to have sex with him is you’re self-sabotaging your relationship because you don’t think you’re worthy of his love.”_
> 
> _It was a light bulb moment for Tom and his brow knitted into a deep frown as he processed the information. “Shit, do you really think so?” he muttered, not daring to believe. He stared at the floor for several moments before raising his head and asking the obvious question. “But how do I get past these feelings? I mean, I physically freeze if Dennis touches me on the ass. How do I stop that from happening?”_
> 
> _A slow smile played over Li’s lips and leaning forward, he rested a hand on Tom's knee and stared into his grief-stricken eyes. “You need to believe in his love.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35938728026/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Wednesday July 8th 1992 (8.16 p.m.)** _

The steady rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops splashing on the steel grating of the fire escape sounded through the open window. As the storm intensified, a gust of wind blew the curtains inwards, the cheap fabric billowing dramatically in the cool night air, and with a sigh, Booker tossed the case file he had been reading onto the coffee table and gazed worriedly up at the diner-style clock hanging on the wall above the stove. Tom’s therapy appointment had finished hours ago, and it was unlike him not to walk straight home after spending what he always described as an _exhausting_ sixty minutes talking to Doctor Li. It was no secret that even after six months of therapy, Tom was still uncomfortable discussing the last few years of his life and he usually could not wait to get back to the apartment so he could take a shower. Booker did not need a degree in psychology to understand the symbolism of the bathing ritual. Talking about his past made Tom feel dirty, and on more than one occasion, he had caught his lover scrawling the word WHORE in his _Thought Journal_. He had not let on to Tom that he had seen the self-deprecating scribblings, but he had mentioned it to Doctor Li. However, the therapist’s only response had been to make a note on his yellow legal pad before continuing with his analysis of what he deemed to be their flawed relationship. While Booker understood that he was not privy to all of Tom’s therapy, he did feel somewhat annoyed that he did not know if Li had ever brought up the matter during his lover’s solo sessions. He considered it a crucial insight into Tom’s psyche, but no matter how hard he pushed the psychologist, Li would not discuss it with him. It was not an easy situation for Booker to accept, but over time, he reluctantly conceded that there would be some parts of his lover’s mind that he would never fully understand and that he needed to stop obsessing over it and move forward.

The sound of a key in the lock startled him out of his musings, and he exhaled a relieved breath when Tom walked in and gave a half-hearted greeting. “Hey.”

Booker took in Tom’s appearance, and he immediately realized his lover must have been walking around in the summer rain for quite some time. His hair hung in damp curls around his face, and his white t-shirt clung to his slender frame, the thin cotton appearing almost translucent under the harshness of the overhead lights. To Booker, the overall effect was that of a small, orphaned child and his protective instincts immediately came to the fore. Tom looked so lost and alone that it caused physical pains in his heart, and getting slowly to his feet, he walked over and laid a gentle hand on his lover's shoulder. “Is everything okay, Tommy?”

Tom managed a watery smile and nodded his head, the movement sending tiny droplets of water into the atmosphere. “Yeah, I went for a walk and I guess I lost track of time. I didn’t even notice it was raining until I reached our building.”

Taking his lover by the hand, Booker led him into the bathroom and grabbed a towel off the rail. “Did something happen during your session with Doctor Li?” he asked, unable to keep the concern from his voice. “Did he upset you?”

Without answering the question, Tom kicked his boots off into a corner and pulling off his socks, he threw them into the laundry hamper. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulled down the zipper and allowed the wet denim to fall to the floor before stepping out of them and leaving them where they lay. As he pulled his t-shirt over his head, Booker’s impatient voice sounded in his ears. “Tom, _did_ something happen at Doctor Li’s?”

Throwing his t-shirt down next to his jeans, Tom took the towel from Booker’s hand and rubbed it over his damp hair. “Sort of,” he replied cryptically.

When a gentle but unyielding hand stilled his arm, he slowly lowered the towel and staring into his lover’s dark, inquisitive eyes, he blew out his breath in a long-suffering sigh. “Doctor Li thinks I’m purposely sabotaging our relationship.”

An expression of surprise registered on Booker’s face and releasing his grasp, he continued his scrutiny of Tom. “ _Are_ you?” he asked candidly.

Tom looked away and hung the towel back on the rail before turning his gaze toward the mirror. “Maybe,” he replied softly, addressing his answer to his reflection rather than to Booker. “I guess I still think I’m not worthy of love. I guess I still think of myself as a—”

“Whore?” Booker interjected quietly, and when Tom’s dark eyes burned with shame, he grasped hold of his hand and squeezing the trembling fingers, he hurriedly explained himself. “That’s not how _I_ see you, Tommy, honest. I only said it ‘cause I saw you writing the word over and over again in your journal and I figured you were still trying to deal with that part of your past.”

Several seconds passed in silence before Tom turned around and taking hold of Booker’s other hand, he looked him squarely in the eyes. “A small part of me will always be that person and I can’t change that. But I _can_ change my relationship with you. I want to _be_ with you Dennis, I want…” His voice faltered for a moment before he continued in a husky, self-conscious whisper. “I want you to make love to me.”

Booker’s heart skipped a beat before thudding erratically in his chest. They were the eight magical words he had been waiting to hear for seven long months. But now that Tom’s lips had finally spoken them, releasing the powerful undertone into the universe, the reality of the situation overwhelmed him, and he felt a moment of blind panic. He was not prepared, and he was terrified of disappointing Tom by not showing him the love and tenderness he deserved. Perspiration prickled at his upper lip and wiping it away with a shaky hand, he struggled to express his feelings coherently. “I… um… shit, Tommy, I—”

“You don’t want to,” Tom interrupted in a flat voice. It was a statement, not a question and pulling his hand from Booker’s hold, he wrapped his arms protectively around his naked torso and cast his eyes downwards. “That’s okay, I get it.”

Shocked that Tom had misunderstood his hesitancy, Booker pulled him into his arms. “Of _course_ I want to!” he exclaimed, and pressing his mouth against the soft pouty flesh of Tom's lips, he kissed him tenderly. “Jesus, Tommy, I _love_ you. You just took me by surprise, that's all.” 

Tilting his chin upwards, Tom peered seductively through his long, thick lashes. “So, does that mean you wanna fool around?” he asked in a soft, lilting voice.

The soft words were enough to harden Booker’s cock, and grabbing Tom by the hand, he pulled him into the bedroom. He watched with growing arousal as Tom removed his boxers and lay on the bed. As he quickly undressed, he could feel two dark, soulful eyes watching his every move, and a shiver of excitement brought goose bumps to his flesh. However, he knew he needed to be patient and let Tom set the pace. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten him by coming on too strong.

With a cheeky grin, he climbed onto the bed and positioned himself between Tom’s bent knees. When he saw the slight apprehension in his lover’s eyes, he reached out and tenderly brushed a damp curl from his face. “We’ll take it slow, and anytime you want to stop, you just say so, okay?”

Tom’s head nodded rapidly up and down and taking a deep breath, he smiled nervously. "Okay.”

Booker returned a tender smile and nuzzling into the curve between Tom’s neck and shoulder, he inhaled the familiar musky scent before playfully nipping and sucking at the taut flesh. When blood pooled to the surface, leaving a red mark, he grinned against the smooth skin. “Now you’re mine,” he whispered, his warm breath tickling Tom’s skin and making him squirm.

Shifting his position slightly, his mouth slowly explored Tom’s scarred torso. His tongue gently probed the raised ridges, and he kissed and sucked every pink cicatrice. He could feel Tom’s chest rising and falling in rapid succession beneath him, and ducking his head, he could see his lover’s cock swelling from the oral stimulation. The need to taste the salty secretion seeping from the tip overwhelmed him and shuffling down the bed, he darted out his tongue and flicked it over Tom’s frenulum before sweeping it over the smooth cockhead. An excited moan sounded from above, and long fingers immediately tangled in his hair, urging him on. But he had other ideas and sitting up, he gently pushed open Tom’s bent left leg and planted a trail of tender kisses up the length of his inner thigh. When he reached his gluteal sulcus, he slowly swept his tongue along the soft crease. He could feel his lover’s thigh quivering beneath his fingers, and growing bolder, he lightly sucked at the spongy flesh of his perineum. 

Tom’s sharp intake of breath resonated around the room, and his body went rigid before beginning to tremble uncontrollably. Sensing that his lover was starting to panic, Booker sat up and stroked a loving finger down his terrified face. “Are you okay, baby? Do you want me to stop?”

An embarrassed flush stained Tom’s cheeks, and he began to chew furiously at his lower lip. “I… I _want_ this, I _really_ do, but…” His voice trailed off, and he averted his eyes from his lover’s worried gaze. “I’m sorry, I’ve ruined everything… again.”

Booker reined in a sigh and lying down next to Tom, he gently caressed his cheek with his thumb. “I’m not going to force you, Tommy, but if you really _do_ want to do this, there are other ways that might make you feel more comfortable.”

A curious frown knitted Tom’s brow and turning his head, he gazed into Booker’s dark eyes. “How?”

With a cheeky grin brightening his face, Booker rolled over onto his back and propped himself up against his pillow. “Straddle me.”

Tom sat up and stared at Booker for a moment before climbing onto his lap and kneeling up in front of him. His legs were still shaking, but he was starting to feel more in control, and when Dennis entwined their fingers together, he smiled down at him.

Booker gently squeezed Tom’s fingers and smiled back. “Now _you’re_ in control,” he murmured softly. “If you want me to touch you anywhere, you guide my hand there, okay?”

A feeling of pure love washed over Tom and his eyes misted over. Booker’s tender understanding and loving patience were all he needed to overcome his fears, and taking a deep breath, he slowly guided his lover’s hand between his open legs. “I want you to touch me _there,”_ he whispered in a trembling voice.

Placing his left hand on Tom’s hip, Booker lightly rubbed his right index finger over Tom’s perineum. Once again, he heard the sharp intake of breath, but this time, Tom remained calm. He massaged the warm flesh in a circular motion, moving ever closer to Tom’s anus and when his finger stroked over the puckered hole, his lover expelled a loud groan of pleasure and two dark eyes gazed down at him with longing. “I wanna feel you inside me.”

Heat flared in Booker’s testicles and removing his hand, he opened his bureau drawer and rummaged around until he found a tube of lubrication. He considered taking out a packet of condoms, but he did not want to presume anything, and so he left them accessible in the drawer, where they could be easily located. Unscrewing the cap of the small tube, he liberally coated his fingers, his eyes never leaving Tom’s intense gaze. Tossing the lube onto the mattress, he stroked a slick finger up the underside of his lover’s cock. “Take my hand,” he murmured softly, “I want you to set the pace.”

Tom’s eyes shone brightly and placing his right hand on Booker’s shoulder, he grasped his lover’s hand in his left and once again guided it between his legs. Inhaling a jagged breath, he pressed the middle finger against his hole. “Okay,” he whispered softly.

Having received the go ahead, Booker gently inserted the tip of his finger as Tom exhaled a heavy breath. He took his time inching his finger inside and eventually, he felt the tight wall of muscle relax and withdrawing the digit to the tip, he carefully inserted a second finger. Crooking his middle finger, he found Tom’s prostate and lightly caressed the pad of his finger over the lobes. Tom immediately bore downwards, his weight pushing the digit against his gland and a soft moan escaped his lips. _“Oooh.”_

“Do you like that, baby?” Booker crooned, and trailing his free hand over Tom’s cock, he coated his fingers in the clear, slippery fluid bubbling from its tip.

 _“Yes,”_ Tom moaned and wrapping his hand around Booker’s fingers, he moved it up and down his shaft. At that moment, endorphins and oxytocin released into his bloodstream, and he slammed the vault shut on the memory of his rape. Gazing down into Booker's soft, brown eyes, he committed the erotic moment to memory as he rewired his brain to associate the slight burning sensation flaming deep inside him as something that was pleasurable and not painful. It had taken almost fourteen months, but with Booker’s loving encouragement, he was finally free of his past.

Dennis soon realized that Tom was close to orgasm, and although disappointed that he had not had the chance to make love to him, he knew that they had reached a crucial turning point in their relationship, and he gave himself over to the moment. “Touch me,” he whispered, “I wanna come with you.”

Tom picked up the lubrication and coating his fingers in the oily substance, he made a fist around Booker’s cock and ran his slick hand up and down his shaft.

“Fuck yeah,” Booker groaned and within moments, they fell into a synchronized rhythm. Tom lowered his body so he was sitting on Booker’s thighs, but his lover’s fingers remained inside him, gently massaging his prostate and the double stimulation had him panting with hot desire. 

“I’m close… I’m close,” he gasped, his body squirming with pleasure as his testicles tightened. “Oh, God… oh, fuck… oh oh oh oh _OOOH!”_

Warm semen coated Booker’s fingers, and as Tom’s body convulsed with pleasure, he felt his orgasm rising. “Tommy… Tommy… _TOMMEEE!”_

Falling forward, Tom engulfed Booker’s open mouth and kissed him passionately. Carefully removing his fingers, Booker wrapped his arms around Tom’s narrow waist and pulled him close. They thrust their bodies together as they continued to shudder out their release, and when their cocks finally softened, they slowed their kiss before gradually pulling apart.

With a contented sigh, Tom sat up and trailed a finger over the seminal fluid covering Booker’s chest. “Wow,” he grinned.

Taking Tom’s hand in his, Booker brought it to his lips and lovingly sucked the sticky fluid from each finger. “Mmm,” he murmured, “Tommy flavor.”

When Tom’s cheeks flushed red, he laughed loudly. “God, could you be any more adorable?”

Tom punched him in the arm, but he could not contain the happiness shining from his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered with a shy smile.

Pulling Tom down on top of him, Booker lovingly stroked his damp hair. “Anytime, baby,” he murmured softly and closing his eyes, he drew comfort from the weight of Tom’s body pressing against him.


	50. Moving Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Tom’s eyes shone brightly and placing his right hand on Booker’s shoulder, he grasped his lover’s hand in his left and once again guided it between his legs. Inhaling a jagged breath, he pressed the middle finger against his hole. “Okay,” he whispered softly._
> 
> _Having received the go ahead, Booker gently inserted the tip of his finger as Tom exhaled a heavy breath. He took his time inching his finger inside and eventually, he felt the tight wall of muscle relax and withdrawing the digit to the tip, he carefully inserted a second finger. Crooking his middle finger, he found Tom’s prostate and lightly caressed the pad of his finger over the lobes. Tom immediately bore downwards, his weight pushing the digit against his gland and a soft moan escaped his lips. “Oooh.”_
> 
> _“Do you like that, baby?” Booker crooned, and trailing his free hand over Tom’s cock, he coated his fingers in the clear, slippery fluid bubbling from its tip._
> 
> _“Yes,” Tom moaned and wrapping his hand around Booker’s fingers, he moved it up and down his shaft. At that moment, endorphins and oxytocin released into his bloodstream, and he slammed the vault shut on the memory of his rape. Gazing down into Booker's soft, brown eyes, he committed the erotic moment to memory as he rewired his brain to associate the slight burning sensation flaming deep inside him as something that was pleasurable and not painful. It had taken almost fourteen months, but with Booker’s loving encouragement, he was finally free of his past._
> 
> _Dennis soon realized that Tom was close to orgasm, and although disappointed that he had not had the chance to make love to him, he knew that they had reached a crucial turning point in their relationship, and he gave himself over to the moment. “Touch me,” he whispered, “I wanna come with you.”_
> 
> _Tom picked up the lubrication and coating his fingers in the oily substance, he made a fist around Booker’s cock and ran his slick hand up and down his shaft._
> 
> _“Fuck yeah,” Booker groaned and within moments, they fell into a synchronized rhythm. Tom lowered his body so he was sitting on Booker’s thighs, but his lover’s fingers remained inside him, gently massaging his prostate and the double stimulation had him panting with hot desire._
> 
> _“I’m close… I’m close,” he gasped, his body squirming with pleasure as his testicles tightened. “Oh, God… oh, fuck… oh oh oh oh OOOH!”_
> 
> _Warm semen coated Booker’s fingers, and as Tom’s body convulsed with pleasure, he felt his orgasm rising. “Tommy… Tommy… TOMMEEE!”_
> 
> _Falling forward, Tom engulfed Booker’s open mouth and kissed him passionately. Carefully removing his fingers, Booker wrapped his arms around Tom’s narrow waist and pulled him close. They thrust their bodies together as they continued to shudder out their release, and when their cocks finally softened, they slowed their kiss before gradually pulling apart._
> 
> _With a contented sigh, Tom sat up and trailed a finger over the seminal fluid covering Booker’s chest. “Wow,” he grinned._
> 
> _Taking Tom’s hand in his, Booker brought it to his lips and lovingly sucked the sticky fluid from each finger. “Mmm,” he murmured, “Tommy flavor.”_
> 
> _When Tom’s cheeks flushed red, he laughed loudly. “God, could you be any more adorable?”_
> 
> _Tom punched him in the arm, but he could not contain the happiness shining from his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered with a shy smile._
> 
> _Pulling Tom down on top of him, Booker lovingly stroked his damp hair. “Anytime, baby,” he murmured softly and closing his eyes, he drew comfort from the weight of Tom’s body pressing against him._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35140381214/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Thursday July 9th 1992 (5.58 a.m.)** _

The sensation of a moist tongue swirling around the indentation of his navel woke Booker from a restful sleep and groaning softly, he opened his eyes to the sight of Tom's brown hair bobbing in front of him. A languid smile played over his lips and sighing contentedly, he lovingly ran his fingers through the soft peaks of his lover’s mussed-up tresses. “Mmm, you should wake me up like this _every_ morning.”

Tom lifted his head, a shy smile tilting his lips. “Do you want me to keep going?” he asked in a low, husky voice.

“Maybe,” Booker replied with a flirtatious waggle of his eyebrows. “But maybe I wanna play with you too.”

Trailing a finger up the length of Booker’s cock, Tom flicked out his tongue and licked his lips suggestively. “Well, we could do that swarson nerf thing again,” he proposed with a sexy grin.

An amused smile curled Booker’s lips, and he choked back a laugh. “I think you mean a soixante-neuf.”

“Whatever,” Tom dismissed with an impatient roll of his eyes. “Do you wanna fool around or not?”

“I want to,” Booker replied in a rush of words, his pupils dilating at the thought of taking Tom into his mouth and pleasuring him until his lover’s juices flowed. “Do you want to top or bottom?”

“How ‘bout we do it the lazy way,” Tom propositioned with a wink and crawling over Booker’s legs, he lay on the mattress with his mouth opposite his lover’s groin.

Rolling onto his side, Booker shuddered as Tom’s warm breath titillated his sensitive cockhead. “Ready?” he rasped, and without waiting for an answer, he lightly grasped the base of Tom’s cock and pressing his lips against the smooth head, he sucked on the tip. At the same moment, a warm, moist mouth engulfed his cock, and a low moan rumbled in the back of his throat as Tom’s full lips moved up and down his shaft. He mirrored the action and taking Tom’s testicles into his hand, he tugged gently. He was immediately rewarded when tender fingers began playing with his balls, and he moaned against the hardening shaft swelling in his mouth. 

He was in heaven.

The two men soon fell into a synchronized tempo, their heads bobbing back and forth in unison and moments later, the strong saliferous flavor of precum awakened Booker’s taste buds. He began to double his efforts when the warm lips sucking him off suddenly vanished, leaving him wanting and releasing Tom’s erection from his mouth, he opened his eyes and gazed at his lover.

Tom’s cheeks glowed a rosy shade of pink and his bare chest rapidly rose and fell from the excitement of their coupling. Fearing the worst, Booker sat up. “Tommy, is everything okay?”

Pushing himself into a sitting position, Tom bit down seductively on his lower lip. “I wanna feel you inside me," he confessed softly, his long, thick lashes framing his sparkling eyes. “I want you to make love to me, Dennis.”

Booker’s dark eyes grew wide, and his lips formed a surprised O before he quickly gathered his wits. “Oh, _baby,_ ” he whispered in a voice filled with emotion. 

With a roguish grin curling his full lips, Tom shuffled to the bottom of the bed and slowly crawled forward on his hands and knees, pausing occasionally to dip his head so he could kiss and suck at the trembling flesh of his lover's inner thigh. When he reached Booker's groin, he swept his tongue up the underside of his erect cock from root to tip, laughing softly when the dark haired officer collapsed against the pillows with an excited moan. When he was straddling Booker’s thighs, he sat back on his heels and playfully waggled his eyebrows. “Anytime you’re ready, _Officer._ ”

Without pause, Dennis yanked open the bedside drawer, the force almost pulling it from its runners. His hand frantically searched through the detritus until he found what he was looking for and with a triumphant smile, he held up a condom and a brand new tube of lubrication. 

Tom laughed and taking the condom, he ripped open the packaging and expertly rolled it onto his lover's erection. Next, he took the lubrication and coating his fingers in the slippery oil, he applied a liberal amount to Booker’s sheathed cock before taking him by the hand and oiling up his fingers. Satisfied that they were good to go, he started to rise when Booker pulled his hand away. “Wait.” 

Tom’s brow knitted into a frown. “What's wrong?” he asked in a confused voice.

Smiling cheekily, Booker placed his hands on Tom’s hips and lifting him off his thighs, he shuffled backward so he was half sitting, half lying with his head propped against the pillows. “Move forward,” he instructed in a husky voice.

A glimmer of understanding flashed across Tom’s face and inching forward on his knees, he positioned himself above Booker’s groin. 

“Now I can fuck you _and_ suck you,” Booker murmured with sparkling eyes.

With a shiver of excited anticipation, Tom guided his lover’s slick hand between his legs and pressed an oily finger against his hole. “Don’t stimulate me,” he warned in a breathless voice. “Not yet.”

Booker nodded his head and carefully inserted his finger. After several minutes of gentle probing, he inserted a second finger, and when he was happy that Tom was stretched enough to receive him, he carefully withdrew. Tom’s eyes burned bright and wrapping his hand around the base of Booker’s shaft, he positioned the tip against his anus and slowly bore down.

“ _Yesss,_ ” Booker hissed as his eyes took in the erotic sight of Tom’s cock jutting proudly out in front of him, the tip glistening with precum. He could feel his lover’s taut thighs trembling as he rocked his hips forward and backward with growing momentum and a grin lit up his face. “Fuck, yes.”

Placing one hand behind Booker’s neck, Tom leaned back and steadied himself on the other. “Suck me,” he moaned as his hips thrust steadily back and forth.

Booker’s dark eyes shone bright and sitting forward, he rested on his elbows and bending his knees, he spread open his legs, ducked his head forward and took his lover into his mouth. With Tom’s hand steadying his head, he allowed him to thrust between his lips, and once again, the unique saliferous flavor he adored filled his mouth, and he moaned in pleasure. His hands rested lightly on Tom’s moving thighs, and his eyes remained open, capturing the erotic sight of his lover's cock moving between his lips. He wanted Tom to feel in control, to have the power to slow things down if he wanted to. But most of all, he wanted him to have the best sex he had ever had and to feel the love that swelled within his heart every single day.

He wanted him to feel whole.

Sweat glistened on Tom’s scarred chest, and tiny rivulets ran down his torso, the droplets coming to rest in the dark mass of his pubic hair. The feel of Booker’s mouth and cock stimulating him at the same time was unlike anything he had ever experienced, and his thrusting soon became frenetic. The sight of his cock sliding between his lover’s lips coupled with the sensual heat burning inside him was so titillating he knew he would not last long, and his eyes fluttered closed. “Oh, Dennis,” he groaned softly. “Oh, Dennis… Oh, Dennis… Oh, Dennis…”

When the flavor of Tom’s juices mixing with his saliva intensified, Booker released him from his mouth.

Tom’s eyes flew open, and he gazed down with frantic eyes. “Don’t stop!” he cried. “Oh, God, Dennis, don’t stop!”

As Tom’s cock bounced erotically against his belly, Booker’s gaze remained transfixed. “Fuck, you look so hot right now,” he breathed and placing his hands on Tom's hips, his lips drew back in a salacious grin. “That's it, baby. Ride me, ride me hard.”

“Dennis,” Tom gasped. “Dennis, please suck me!”

Booker’s eyes flashed black. “Nuh uh,” he teased, his breath coming out in ragged puffs. “I wanna see you come.”

“Please please please…” Tom panted, his body rocking faster as Booker’s cock slammed against his prostate. “Oh, Dennis, oh, God, oh, oh, oh, _OOOH!”_

Warm semen splattered against Booker’s chest and feeling his orgasm rising, his fingernails bit into Tom's flesh. Arching his head backward, he slammed Tom’s body down onto his cock and bucked his hips upwards as an ecstatic cry spilled from between his lips. “TOMM _EEE!”_

Falling forward, Tom devoured Booker’s mouth, their lips mashing together and their tongues clashing with an animalistic hunger as they continued to shudder out their release. The aroma of sex hung in the air, the heavy scent fueling their inherent primordial need to taste each other, touch each other, dominate each other. They nipped and groped until eventually their bodies relaxed, and slowing the kiss, Tom sucked playfully on Booker’s lower lip before pulling away and disengaging himself in an ungainly tangle of limbs. With a contented sigh, he rolled onto the mattress and throwing an arm around Booker’s waist, he snuggled against his warm body and closed his eyes.

Turning his head, Booker looked at the digital clock on his bureau and let out a groan. “I’m late for work.”

When he received no answer, he looked down into Tom’s tranquil face. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered in disbelief. But seconds later, a tender smile curled at the corners of his lips and leaning forward, he kissed Tom's sweaty forehead. “See you tonight.”

“Mmmkay,” Tom mumbled incoherently.

Booker grinned broadly and gently removing Tom’s arm from around his waist, he climbed from the bed and walked into the bathroom.

**

_**Ten weeks later - Thursday September 17th, 1992 (6.58 p.m.)** _

As the setting sun cast its final rays across the city, Tom climbed the worn steps into a gray brick apartment building. He glanced at the elevator for a moment before deciding he needed the exercise and grasping hold of the banister, he slowly limped up the stairs. His lungs soon burned with the exertion, his chest rising and falling rapidly with heavy, panting breaths and when he reached the fourth floor, he briefly considered giving up and riding the elevator the remaining two floors. However, his dogged determination kept him moving, and when he finally reached the sixth floor, he pushed open the fire door with a grunt. Entering the brightly lit corridor, he quickly orientated himself and turning left, he walked down the blue-carpeted hallway and stopped outside of apartment 614. The sudden onset of nerves caused an unwelcome churning in his stomach and closing his eyes, he slowly counted to ten. Once he was confident he would not make a fool of himself, he raised his hand and rapped his knuckles loudly on the door.

The door opened, and Harry’s shocked face displayed his surprise. The officer’s eyes darted up and down the corridor, and when he realized Tom was alone, his visage changed to one of worry, and tension lines creased his brow. “Hanson, is everything okay?”

A nervous smile twitched at the corners of Tom’s lips, and he rubbed a self-conscious hand over his mouth. “Yeah, everything’s great, it’s just… can I speak to you?”

Somewhat taken aback by the request, Harry remained in the doorway for several moments before stepping back and holding open the door. “Sure,” he replied with a smile. “C’mon in.”

Tom paused for a moment before entering the apartment that had once been his home for a week. It seemed incredulous to him that three long years had passed since Harry had taken him in after his fight with Booker, and he gazed around the neat home with curious eyes. Not much had changed except for a new bookcase that stood where a small bureau had once been, its shelves methodically stacked with books in both English and Vietnamese. A few photographs broke up the monotony of book spines lining the shelves and one photo in an attractive carved wooden frame immediately caught Tom’s eye. His body froze and he stared with a transfixed gaze at the image of Harry and Judy’s smiling faces. The photograph looked recent and his brow knitted into a deep frown. He had assumed once Jump Street had disbanded that Booker and Harry were the only ones who had stayed in touch because they worked together. But it appeared Harry and Judy were still friends, and he suddenly wondered if Booker had purposely kept the information from him. As he stared at the picture, another more disturbing thought crossed his mind and his frown deepened. If Harry and Judy were friends, then in all likelihood, _Dennis_ and Judy were friends too, and cold tendrils of resentment wrapped around his heart, chilling him to the bone. He felt deceived and at that moment, he wondered what other secrets his lover had kept from him.

Harry’s voice cut through the silence. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Um, sure. Soda if you’ve got it,” Tom replied absently and moving over to the bookcase, he picked up the photo and traced a finger over Judy’s smiling face. A pang of regret seared his heart, instantly melting away the bitterness. They had all been friends, once upon a time, a close-knit group who had enjoyed socializing outside of work together. Even after Amy’s untimely death, he had forced himself to fraternize by slapping on a happy face and pretending he was still Tom Hanson, when in reality, he was nothing more than a ghost. He had played his part well, and none of his friends had suspected he was falling apart. Then Booker had come on the scene and in only a matter of months, he had seen through his charade. Although he had not known him well enough to identify his shattered psyche, Booker had been perceptive enough to perceive a crack. Without the dark haired officer’s dogged persistence, in all probability, he would not be standing in Harry’s apartment, holding a photograph and reminiscing about broken friendships. He would be living in the gutter, addicted to drugs and whoring himself to an early grave. Or worse, he could be dead already.

The intentional sound of Harry clearing his throat brought him back to the present with a thud and placing the photograph on the shelf, he turned around with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have been snooping.”

With a light shrug of his shoulders, Harry handed Tom a can of Pepsi. “It was taken a few months ago,” he stated by way of explanation. “We still catch up when we can, but work makes it kinda difficult, you know how it is.”

A small, embarrassed smile twitched at Tom’s lips, and he lowered his gaze to the floor. Years ago, he _had_ known how difficult it was to maintain friendships while working a demanding job, but not anymore. Now he had no friends except for Booker, and he did not have a job. 

He was, in the practical sense, alone.

Sensing Tom’s discomfit, Harry mentally kicked himself. “Sorry,” he apologized quickly. “That was insensitive. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

Tom lifted his gaze and smiled a sad smile. “I know you didn’t,” he reassured softly. “No need to apologize.”

An awkward silence hung heavily between them and taking a sip of his drink, Tom pulled out a folded envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Harry. “Um, this is for you. Happy birthday.”

A look of genuine surprise crossed over Harry’s face and taking the envelope from Tom’s hand, he ripped it open and pulled out the card. As he read the words, his expression softened and placing a hand on Tom’s shoulder, he gave it a friendly squeeze. “Thanks, Hanson. That means a lot.”

Tom shoved his free hand into his pocket and rocked on his heels, his discomfort evident. “I… er… I never really apologized for what happened at the warehouse. I want you to know that I’m sorry for the pain you went through and—”

“Don’t,” Harry interjected quietly. “If I’d been a better friend, I would have realized Amy’s death had affected you more than you let on. The past is in the past, let’s move forward and start over. Okay?” 

Tears of emotion filled Tom’s eyes. “Really?” he whispered, almost too afraid to believe that Harry had forgiven him.

“Really,” Harry replied with a grin before offering his hand. “Friends?”

Without pause, Tom took Harry’s hand in his and shook it firmly. “Friends,” he reiterated with a smile. 

Another long silence followed their somewhat clumsy reconciliation and chewing self-consciously on his lower lip, Tom finally asked the question that was now foremost on his mind. “Do you think Judy will ever forgive me?”

When Harry spoke, the answer was not what Tom had expected. “Why don’t you go see her and find out?”


	51. Peace at Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I had planned on Chapter 51 being the grande finale of this story. However, after some thought, I have decided to break it up into a chapter and an epilogue, both of which I have posted today. I think you will understand why when you read the closing few paragraphs of my tale. I am looking to convey a strong, heartfelt emotion, and I think it works better as a standalone piece. At least I hope so.**
> 
> **When I started writing, “Chasing a Butterfly” I never envisioned that it would span 52 chapters. To be honest, I only ever had the first few chapters worked out in my head, (which is usually the case) and then I just let the story write itself. I know the introduction of Mosco as a love interest of Tom’s was not to everyone’s liking, but when I started developing his character, I kind of fell in love with him and I wanted to give him a larger role. His death was tragic, but necessary, in my opinion, but I still miss him.**
> 
> **For those of you who have read this story in its entirety, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is a big investment of time to commit to reading something so long, and I really do appreciate it. It has taken me seven months to write this story, which I guess is a big investment in _my_ time too, but for me, it is a labour of love. I adore this couple and writing their stories gives me immense pleasure coupled with a touch of satisfaction.**
> 
> **If you are not a member of The Archive, and you wish to receive notifications when I write or update stories, or, if you would just like to chat, feel free to email me at openpage66@gmail.com**
> 
> **So once again, thank you all for your comments and kudos. I am going to take a small break before starting my next story, but I hope to see you all again very soon.**
> 
> **One last thing before I go. For those of you who doubted that the sexual position Tom and Dennis engaged in during chapter 50 is possible, trust me, it is. I researched it ;)**
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage xx**
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  _Previously: A look of genuine surprise crossed over Harry’s face and taking the envelope from Tom’s hand, he ripped it open and pulled out the card. As he read the words, his expression softened and placing a hand on Tom’s shoulder, he gave it a friendly squeeze. “Thanks, Hanson. That means a lot.”_
> 
> _Tom shoved his free hand into his pocket and rocked on his heels, his discomfort evident. “I… er… I never really apologized for what happened at the warehouse. I want you to know that I’m sorry for the pain you went through and—”_
> 
> _“Don’t,” Harry interjected quietly. “If I’d been a better friend, I would have realized Amy’s death had affected you more than you let on. The past is in the past, let’s move forward and start over. Okay?”_
> 
> _Tears of emotion filled Tom’s eyes. “Really?” he whispered, almost too afraid to believe that Harry had forgiven him._
> 
> _“Really,” Harry replied with a grin before offering his hand. “Friends?”_
> 
> _Without pause, Tom took Harry’s hand in his and shook it firmly. “Friends,” he reiterated with a smile._
> 
> _Another long silence followed their somewhat clumsy reconciliation and chewing self-consciously on his lower lip, Tom finally asked the question that was now foremost on his mind. “Do you think Judy will ever forgive me?”_
> 
> _When Harry spoke, the answer was not what Tom had expected. “Why don’t you go see her and find out?”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35938727846/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Thursday September 17th 1992 (8.16 p.m.)** _

Relieved, but still somewhat emotionally unsettled after his meeting with Harry, Tom unlocked the door of his and Booker’s apartment and walked inside. From his seat on the couch, Dennis turned his head and smiled lovingly. “How'd it go?”

Tom closed the door and walking into the kitchen, he tossed his keys onto the counter. “Good,” he replied quietly, and taking a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator, he popped the top and took a long, satisfying swig.

Booker picked up the TV remote and muted the sound. “Meaning?” he queried with a suppressed sigh. Sometimes getting the facts out of Tom was as painful as pulling teeth, and he knew he would not get the full story unless he pushed. His lover was still a fiercely private person, and he rarely felt the need to volunteer information. It was a frustrating part of their relationship, but Dennis was beginning to accept that it was just another one of Tom’s quirks, and he was slowly learning to live with it.

Finishing his beer in several long gulps, Tom threw the empty bottle in the trash and grabbed another. “Harry and I talked, and we’ve agreed to put the past behind us and move forward.”

Although it took all his willpower to refrain from throttling the information out of Tom, Booker remained outwardly calm. “As friends?” he probed stubbornly.

A small smile twitched the corners of Tom’s mouth, but it vanished from his lips within seconds. “Yeah, as friends.”

It was the news Booker had tentatively been hoping for when his lover had advised him that he was going to try to make things right with Harry. However, as he studied Tom’s face, he knew there was something else playing on his mind and standing up, he approached him and tenderly brushed a stray strand of hair from his eyes. “So, why the glum face?” he asked softly.

Tom clenched his jaw and putting down his beer, he gazed unwaveringly at Booker. “Are you in contact with Judy?”

Booker’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “ _What?_ NO! Why the hell would you ask me that?”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Tom stared dolefully at the worn linoleum flooring. “I dunno. Harry told me _he’s_ still in touch with her, and I guess I started to wonder if you were too.”

Confusion clouded Booker’s dark eyes, and he shook his head slowly back and forth in disbelief. “Do you _really_ think I would keep that from you?” he demanded in a high, incredulous voice. “Jesus, Tommy! When are you going to trust me?”

Shame reddened Tom’s face, and he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Sorry,” he mumbled into his chest. “I s’pose it was wrong of me to assume, but—”

“You’re damn right it was,” Booker shot back crossly, his eyes blazing with anger. “I don’t get it, Tom. Just when I think everything’s okay between us, _you_ accuse me of sneaking around behind your back! What the hell is wrong with you?”

A few months before, Booker’s outburst would have brought tears to Tom’s eyes, but he suddenly found an inner strength he did not realize he possessed. Through Doctor Li’s therapy, he was becoming both emotionally and mentally stronger, and lifting his gaze, he calmly attempted to make Booker understand his inner turmoil. “I don’t know. I think seeing the photo of Judy unnerved me. Things have changed for the better since I started seeing Doctor Li, but it’s only been in the last few weeks that I’ve realized how much I miss having Harry and Judy as friends. Reconciling with Harry was easy, he’s your best friend and we’ve talked on and off over the last few years. But Judy? I haven’t seen her since the day after I...” 

His voice petered out to a whisper and his eyes filled with anguish as he bravely swallowed his pain. “Since I shot Doug,” he finished quietly.

Booker’s expression softened and his eyes mirrored Tom’s pain. He regretted losing his temper and wrapping his arms around Tom, he held him in a tight embrace. “Do you _want_ to see her?” he asked softly.

Tilting up his chin, Tom gazed into Booker’s concerned face. “Harry thinks I should.”

“Forget what Harry thinks,” Booker replied in a serious tone. “What do _you_ want to do?”

Tom’s shoulders sagged, and he leaned against the protective warmth of Booker’s body and sighed heavily. “I need closure,” he murmured. “Otherwise, I’ll never have peace.”

With a tender smile, Booker kissed the top of Tom’s head. “Then I think you know what you have to do.”

**

_**Friday September 18th 1992 (11.39 a.m.)** _

By pure coincidence and good fortune, Judy’s birthday was the day after Harry’s, giving Tom the perfect excuse (or so he told himself) to visit her after three and a half years of separation. He carried a single red rose in his hand, a simple gift that was all he could afford without asking Booker for money, and he _loathed_ asking Booker for money. It had taken a long time, but he was slowly finding his independence, and he refused to take advantage of the man he loved. He knew it would take many more months of therapy before he had the confidence to re-enter the workforce, but he planned to pull his weight financially as soon as he could. While it was still a long way in the future, he hoped that one day, he could become a youth counselor. It was his dream to help those addicted to drugs, find a new path in life, and he hoped his stint in prison would not hinder his ambition. He honestly believed he had a role to play in helping those who had lost their way. It was his destiny and if he could prevent one other person from ruining their life the way he had ruined his, then the last three years would have been worth all the pain. Although his transformation had been painfully slow, he finally felt he had a purpose in a world full of uncertainty. He had a clear vision for the future, but most importantly, he was slowly but surely, finding Tom Hanson.

Therefore, as he stood outside Judy’s apartment, he made a silent vow to himself. If his former friend spurned his overtures to repair their shattered relationship, he would accept it and move forward. He had come too far, and he would not allow a rejection of friendship to set him back. Dennis was the most important person in his life and he was determined to become the strong, self-reliant man he had been before Amy’s death.

It was what his lover deserved.

Without allowing himself any further time for self-reflection, he took in a deep, calming breath and rapped his knuckles on the door. A minute passed and with no sound of activity coming from within the apartment, his nervous disposition quickly turned into one of disappointment. With a heavy sigh, he turned to walk away when Judy’s flustered voice sounded from behind the door. “I’m coming… I’m coming.”

He turned back around just as the door flung open, revealing Judy’s harried face. Their eyes locked and for a second, time stood still. His former friend looked as beautiful as he remembered, her dark, curly hair flatteringly framing her elfin face. He knew he needed to speak, but seeing her again brought back a flood of memories and hot tears misted his eyes, leaving him mute. It was at that precise moment, as he stared into Judy’s startled eyes that he realized the love he held in his heart for her had never died. All he had managed to do was bury the emotion in a deep, dark corner of his soul because not having her in his life was too damn painful. After Doug’s death, he had successfully escaped his life, leaving behind him a trail of devastation and broken hearts. But staring his past in the face brought all his emotions to the fore and he realized how much he had given up when he made the decision to numb his pain with drugs rather than face his mistakes like a man. He had walked away from the most important people in his life, and he knew in his heart that he would mourn the lost years of friendship forever. 

It was a harsh but valuable lesson; there were some mistakes you could never take back, no matter how much you wanted to.

His grip tightened around the delicate rose in his hand, and he struggled to contain his emotions. Once again, he attempted to speak, but this time, Judy beat him to the punch. “H-Hanson?”

Tom smiled shyly and held out the rose with a shaky hand. “Hey, Jude. Happy birthday.”

Judy’s hand remained on the doorknob while the other hovered over her parted lips. She continued to gape open-mouthed at the ghost from her past, her eyes wide with disbelief. Standing before her was the corporeal representation of all the pain and misery she had suffered over the last three and a half years, and raw emotion bubbled inside her. Over time, she had learned to deal with the heartache of losing Doug, but seeing Tom brought all the pain to the surface and planting a hand on her hip in a stance that screamed attitude, she glared at her former friend with cold, unblinking eyes. “What are you doing here?” 

Embarrassed by her reaction, Tom slowly lowered his hand. “I-I w-wanted to s-see you,” he stammered softly, his face flushing a deep crimson. “I-I—”

“You _what?”_ Judy snapped. “You thought you could bring me a rose and everything would be okay? Jesus, Hanson, even _you_ couldn’t be _that_ emotionally retarded.”

Pain seared at Tom’s heart and dropping his gaze to the floor, he struggled to control his tears. “I guess I am.”

When Judy did not answer, he bent down and laid the rose on the floor, just inches from her feet. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and straightening up, he gave her a sad smile before turning away and slowly walking towards the elevator.

When Judy noticed Tom’s shuffling gait, her brow knitted into a deep frown and stepping into the corridor, she picked up the flower and called out to him in a high-pitched voice. “What happened to you?” 

Tom paused before turning around, a self-conscious smile twitching his lips. “Didn’t Harry tell you?” he asked softly.

Judy slowly shook her head from side to side, her gaze focusing on Tom’s trembling hand. “We… ah… We don’t talk about you.”

Pain flashed in Tom’s eyes, but he remained composed. “No, of course you don’t. Why would you?” he muttered to himself. Before Judy could speak again, he limped back to her apartment and taking a deep breath, he looked her directly in the eye and spoke in a flat voice. “I was set up by the man I loved, and when I left prison, I was beaten and raped. I have nerve damage and a brain injury. I sometimes forget things, like certain words, but hey, it could be worse; I could be dead, right?”

“Oh, Tom,” Judy whispered, her large, dark eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know.”

“I don’t want your pity,” Tom replied quietly, his lower lip pushing into a resolute pout. “I came here because I want you to know that I understand why you hate me. I did a terrible thing, and I tried to cover it up. But I also want you to understand, I was messed up… really, _really_ messed up. I know that’s not an excuse, but… Jesus, Jude, Amy died in my arms, and I shut down. I felt _nothing_ , no pain, no remorse, just emptiness inside because I didn’t love her enough to mourn her death. It fucked me up, and I started drinking and then… The drugs were so easy to get, and when I was high, I finally felt like _me_ again, I was _happy!_ It was a stupid, reckless mistake, and I’ll never forgive myself for what I did. I killed Doug because I screwed up, and I finally have the balls to admit it. It was my fault, and I have to live with the guilt of killing my best friend every day for the rest of my fucking life.” 

He paused to draw breath and when he spoke again, his barely audible voice trembled with emotion. “Don’t you think that’s punishment enough?”

The tears glistening in Judy’s eyes flowed free and stumbling forward, she threw her arms around Tom and pulled him into a loving embrace. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed against the warm exposed flesh of his neck. “Oh, Tommy! I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

Moved by Judy’s unbridled display of emotion, Tom hugged her tight and blinked back his own tears. It was a magical moment, and the pain he carried inside lessened with each passing moment. Love and forgiveness had restored another missing piece of his soul, and he knew in time, he would once again be complete.

When Judy finally disengaged from Tom’s arms, she wiped the tears from her eyes and sniffing loudly, she punched him playfully in the arm. “So is it true? Are you and Booker _really_ a couple?” 

With his cheeks flushing red, Tom smiled a shy smile. “Yeah, we are.”

Judy’s red-rimmed eyes sparkled with happiness. “I’m glad.”

Tom’s shy smile transformed into a broad grin. “Yeah, me too.”


	52. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: When Judy noticed Tom’s shuffling gait, her brow knitted into a deep frown and stepping into the corridor, she picked up the flower and called out to him in a high-pitched voice. “What happened to you?”_
> 
> _Tom paused before turning around, a self-conscious smile twitching his lips. “Didn’t Harry tell you?” he asked softly._
> 
> _Judy slowly shook her head from side to side, her gaze focusing on Tom’s trembling hand. “We… ah… We don’t talk about you.”_
> 
> _Pain flashed in Tom’s eyes, but he remained composed. “No, of course you don’t. Why would you?” he muttered to himself. Before Judy could speak again, he limped back to her apartment and taking a deep breath, he looked her directly in the eye and spoke in a flat voice. “I was set up by the man I loved, and when I left prison, I was beaten and raped. I have nerve damage and a brain injury. I sometimes forget things, like certain words, but hey, it could be worse; I could be dead, right?”_
> 
> _“Oh, Tom,” Judy whispered, her large, dark eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know.”_
> 
> _“I don’t want your pity,” Tom replied quietly, his lower lip pushing into a resolute pout. “I came here because I want you to know that I understand why you hate me. I did a terrible thing, and I tried to cover it up. But I also want you to understand, I was messed up… really, really messed up. I know that’s not an excuse, but… Jesus, Jude, Amy died in my arms, and I shut down. I felt nothing, no pain, no remorse, just emptiness inside because I didn’t love her enough to mourn her death. It fucked me up, and I started drinking and then… The drugs were so easy to get, and when I was high, I finally felt like me again, I was happy! It was a stupid, reckless mistake, and I’ll never forgive myself for what I did. I killed Doug because I screwed up, and I finally have the balls to admit it. It was my fault, and I have to live with the guilt of killing my best friend every day for the rest of my fucking life.”_
> 
> _He paused to draw breath and when he spoke again, his barely audible voice trembled with emotion. “Don’t you think that’s punishment enough?”_
> 
> _The tears glistening in Judy’s eyes flowed free and stumbling forward, she threw her arms around Tom and pulled him into a loving embrace. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed against the warm exposed flesh of his neck. “Oh, Tommy! I’m so, so sorry.”_
> 
> _Moved by Judy’s unbridled display of emotion, Tom hugged her tight and blinked back his own tears. It was a magical moment, and the pain he carried inside lessened with each passing moment. Love and forgiveness had restored another missing piece of his soul, and he knew in time, he would once again be complete._
> 
> _When Judy finally disengaged from Tom’s arms, she wiped the tears from her eyes and sniffing loudly, she punched him playfully in the arm. “So is it true? Are you and Booker really a couple?”_
> 
> _With his cheeks flushing red, Tom smiled a shy smile. “Yeah, we are.”_
> 
> _Judy’s red-rimmed eyes sparkled with happiness. “I’m glad.”_
> 
> _Tom’s shy smile transformed into a broad grin. “Yeah, me too.”_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/35140380884/in/album-72157684147662000/)

_**Friday November 6th, 1992 (10.18 a.m.)** _

Tom unbuckled his seat belt and opened the car door. A blast of cold air blew into the warm Mustang, bringing goose bumps to his flesh, in spite of the heavy coat he was wearing. He glanced up at the clear blue sky, and a soft, wistful sigh escaped his lips. It was the perfect day to visit an old friend.

A gentle hand squeezed his thigh and turning his head, he smiled at his lover. “I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to do this.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Booker asked quietly, his dark eyes shining with concern.

With a shake of his head, Tom exhaled a heavy breath. “Thanks, but I need to face him on my own. There are things I need to say, things that are kinda private, you know?”

Booker smiled and nodded his head. “Yeah, of course. Take your time and I’ll be here when you get back.”

Tom’s expression softened and leaning across the car, he brushed his lips against the soft flesh of Booker’s pout and kissed him tenderly. “I know you will.”

They kissed for several long moments, their love for each other evident in the tender caresses they bestowed upon each other and as the intensity of their passion deepened, Tom drew the strength he needed from his lover’s affections. But the time had come for him to face his demons and gently disengaging from Booker’s tender hold, he sat back in his seat. Their brief coupling had flushed his face a flattering shade of pink, the soft hue highlighting his cheekbones, and the enchanting sight caused a loving smile to form on Booker’s lips. In return, Tom attempted to project a calmness he did not feel, but he knew he was failing dismally and flashing a tentative smile, he sighed softly. “Wish me luck.”

At that moment, Tom had never looked more beautiful, and Booker could not resist stealing one last kiss. “Good luck,” he murmured against his lover’s soft lips. More than anything, he wanted to shield Tom from the pain he was about to face, but to do so would only hinder his lover’s healing. He was astute enough to know he needed to step back and allow Tom to find the peace he was searching for, and he was secure enough to give him the space to do it alone.

It was time to let go.

Tom briefly returned Booker’s kiss, but his mind was now on the task at hand and gently pulling away, he climbed from the car and closed the door behind him. He stood for several moments, his nervous disposition pumping adrenalin throughout his body, the hormone accentuating the tremor in his hand and drawing in a lungful of the cool, fall air, he attempted to control his anxiety. Gradually, his tension lessened and making his way across the beautifully manicured lawns, he stopped in front of a simple granite headstone. Dropping to his knees, he carefully placed a bunch of flowers at the bottom of the monument and silently read the dedication.

**In Loving Memory Of**  
**Douglas John Penhall**  
**Los Angeles Police Officer**  
**Born November 6th, 1964**  
**Died March 7th, 1989**  
**Aged 24 years**  
**Killed in the Line of Duty**

**_“Too loved in life to be forgotten in death.”_ **

As he traced a finger over the inscription, tears blinded his eyes, and he choked back a sob. “Hey, Doug,” he whispered, his voice hitching with emotion. “It’s me. Happy birthday. Sorry it’s taken me so long to come and visit, I was in a dark place and… well, I guess you know that ‘cause I’m pretty sure you’re keeping an eye on me, just like you always did.”

A single tear trickled from the corner of his eye and wound its way down his smooth cheek. “God, I miss you so much,” he sobbed, “and I’m so, so sorry for what I did.”

Closing his eyes, he allowed the memories he had banished for so long to dance freely in his mind. Doug dressed as a McQuaid, his hair unbrushed and sticking up in peaks around his head. Doug sitting on his motorbike, his voice full of pain as he admitted that he had attempted suicide at the age of eight. Doug showing off his dance moves, his large frame surprisingly rhythmic as he moved across the floor, his lopsided grin adding to the appeal of his infectious nature. On and on the memories flowed and tears streamed unchecked down Tom’s pale face. It was the first time since initially hearing of Doug’s death that he had allowed himself the emotional luxury to mourn his friend’s death, and his tears soon turned into loud, racking sobs. But the pain that filled his heart had a cathartic effect, and he knew he was eventually coming to terms with the finality of Doug’s death and the role he had played in his passing. It was a pivotal moment in his recovery and a sense of calm mingled with his heartache. He was finally moving forward.

The fall breeze picked up, sending dry, auburn-hued leaves scattering across the ground, the soft rustling competing with the melodic song of the Yellow-rumped Warblers that inhabited the copse of trees bordering the cemetery. As the dulcet whistling of the migrant birds became louder, Tom opened his eyes and turned his gaze towards the small wooded area and immediately, his breath caught in his throat. Standing amongst the deciduous woodlands were three shadowy figures, two males flanking a single female, their ethereal forms shimmering in the bright sunlight. They stood united in death, the three people who had affected his life in such a powerful and dramatic way, and he knew they would be bound together forever. They were now as much a part of each other as they were a part of him.

As he stared through his tears, all three figures lifted their hands in a final goodbye before turning away, their ghostly outlines fading into the greenery of the trees until they were no more.

It was a profound and moving moment, and as his tears flowed, Tom knew that Amy, Doug and Mosco were finally at peace.

He continued to stare at the trees for several long minutes, the graceful waving of the leafless limbs lulling him into a sense of blissful calm. Eventually, he took a deep breath and smiling through his tears, he wiped a shaky hand across his eyes. “I love you, Doug,” he declared softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “Always have, always will and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

At that moment, a lone Monarch butterfly landed on Doug’s headstone, its delicate orange and black wings fluttering regally in the breeze. Captivated by its fragility, Tom stared at the intricacy of the design and silently marveled at its beauty. It was an enchanting moment that lasted only a few seconds, and when the majestic insect took flight and disappeared into the distance, he knew it was a sign. Doug had forgiven him, and he was free to spread his wings and fly.

He was no longer chasing a butterfly, he _was_ the butterfly, and he was finally free.

_Finis_


End file.
